


It’s Hard to Say Goodbye If You Won’t Leave

by ViennaWaitsForYou



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Eventual Smut, F/M, FU Netflix, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, My First AO3 Post, Post The Punisher Season 2, Romance, kastle forever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViennaWaitsForYou/pseuds/ViennaWaitsForYou
Summary: It's been months since Karen Page said goodbye to Frank Castle. Since Karen had come to accept that all they may ever share together in this life is a few moments of peace and understanding—in a diner, in an elevator, and in a hospital room.But what if fate, and more importantly, Frank, disagree?





	1. We Only Said Goodbye with Words

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Kastle fam! So I started writing this after I watched season 2 of The Punisher. And I don't care if we're cancelled now, I'm still going to write this and hopefully someone will read it & enjoy it so I'm not just shouting into the void. This is my first Kastle fic, the first fanfic I've written in like five years, and my first post on this site. So thanks for popping my cherry with me ;)
> 
> P.S. Drop me a comment if you feel like it. Or if you want to discuss season 2. Or just cry with me over cancellation. xo

It’s a quarter to seven on a Thursday night; and Karen Page is nursing a beer, seated at a small table in Josie's Bar with the other two-thirds of Nelson, Murdock & Page. The bar is unusually quiet tonight with just the regulars milling about, along with a few newbies that happened to stumble in upon coming across the joint. Karen's still in her work clothes, and her eyes are tired; sore from staring at a computer screen all day, doing opposition research on a litigant. But Foggy had been insistent on the trio ending their long workday with a celebratory drink at their favorite  ~~shithole~~  watering hole, so here she finds herself. Celebrating their big move. 

After nine months of working out of a back room in Nelson's Meats, they'd finally managed to scrape together enough capital to leave the butcher shop and upgrade into their own office. And what a boon it was. As much as she’d enjoyed the free sandwiches and warm hospitality Theo and the rest of the Nelson family unfailingly provided, Karen had long grown weary of the smell of raw meat and limited space of the butcher shop turned law firm.

It had been about two weeks since they had moved into the red brick building on West 44th Street that was now the permanent home of Nelson, Murdock & Page. There was still some work to be done; walls that needed a second coat of paint and the toilet in the waiting room bathroom wouldn't flush properly, but it was  _theirs_.

“I have a confession to make,” Foggy announces, interrupting a funny story Matt was telling of their law school shenanigans at Columbia, of the time he and Foggy attempted to dye a fountain green for St. Patrick's Day. “There's another reason I wanted us to come here tonight, other than the move.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket to grab something.

It's a black velvet ring box.

“Woah, is that what I think it is?” Karen leans in closer to see.

“Yep. It’s an engagement ring,” he replies, grinning. His cheeks are flushed, partly from the alcohol and partly from excitement. “I was walking home after we signed the lease for the new place the other day, and I passed a jewelry store. And it hit me. I don't want to spend another day _not_ being married to the love of my life.”

Matt breaks out into a big smile, the dimple in his right cheek making an appearance. He sets his beer bottle aside, and pulls his best friend into a warm hug. “She’s one hell of a woman, Fogg. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

Karen follows Matt in congratulating him on his impending engagement, laughing as Foggy almost knocks all their drinks down by bumping the table as he leans over to give her a hug. “Franklin Nelson, off the market. We single ladies despair. Marci's a lucky woman.” She teases, before putting her hand out. “Can I see the ring?”

“Yeah, of course,” Foggy hurries to give it to her. “I need your opinion, anyways. Tell me the truth, you think she'll like it? Is it big enough?”

Karen snaps open the lid of the box to take a look at the engagement ring. It's a three-carat, princess-cut diamond set on a white gold band.

“Oh Foggy, it's beautiful. Marci's going to love it.”

Foggy lights up like a Christmas tree at her praise, taking the ring back and tucking it safely away in his jacket. He casts his eyes about, reassuring himself that the people around them haven't taken a special interest in their conversation; Josie’s Bar didn’t attract the most  _savory_ of patrons on a good day. The engagement ring cost him four months’ rent, it wouldn’t do to have it stolen before he could propose.

“So when are you popping the question?” Matt asks, taking a swig of his beer. “You've been holding onto that ring for what...almost a month, now?  _Faint heart never won fair lady_.”

“Two weeks from now, actually. Marci's firm is throwing a big party. A schmoozefest for potential clients. I'm going to surprise her. Hogarth knows, she’s cool with it. I've invited her parents, and a few of her friends. And I want you both there, of course.”

“I'll be there, Foggy. You can count on it.” Karen assures him, with Matt nodding in agreement. “Me too. Wouldn't miss it.”

Foggy smiles in response, but then looks down towards the table in a sudden display of melancholy. “You know, this will be my second proposal. Marci had a brief moment of sanity and turned me down last time,” he jokes, but the laughter is forced.

“After the attack at the Bulletin happened...I kind of lost my shit. Thought I was gonna die, ya know? So I came home to Marci and proposed.” He taps his finger on his beer bottle, his brows drawn together.

“But you know Marci, she's always right. Told me no. Said to propose again when it comes from the heart, not trauma.”

Karen glances over at Matt to find him looking _predictably_ guilty, his lips twisted into a frown. That's one thing his resurrection could never change in him...not even being _crushed by a building_  could cure Matthew Murdock of his ever-present guilt. He's a good Catholic, after all.

“Hey,” Foggy pipes up, cheerful again. “You know it's true what they say. About how engaged people want to get all their single friends married off, too.” He throws his arms around the two of them, squeezing them in close for a minute. “So when are you two gonna find your significant others? I don’t wanna be the only boring married person in our friend group,” he whines aloud.

Karen laughs in amusement over his theatrics, taking a pull on her beer.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Fogg. The only date I can get these days is with my mother,” Matt says, self-deprecating as always.

“Oh please.  _Murderers on_ _death row_  have women writing them love letters and vying to marry them, Matt. Surely you can find one willing to  _sit through coffee_ with you.”

“Yeah, well it’s easy for them. They have all that time to workout in the yard,” Matt quips.

He sits back in his chair with a long-suffering sigh, faking disillusionment like the overdramatic asshole he is. “But thankfully, my one and only true love remains _—”_

“Yourself?” Karen cuts in with a smirk, needling him.

“Ha ha. Very funny, Karen.” He lowers his voice, mindful of any eavesdroppers. “No, I was going to say Daredevil.”

“That's yourself- _adjacent_ , Matt.” Karen points out, causing Foggy to laugh and high-five her across the table.

 _“One and only true love_ , huh? Cheating on God, Matt? I’m scandalized.” Foggy joins in on the teasing.

Matt takes the ribbing in stride, merely shaking his head in exasperation. He tips back the last of his beer, before standing up from the table.

“I’m going to call it a night, guys. Got some business to attend to.” He buttons his suit jacket back up and un-collapses his walking stick.

 _Business_ being code for putting on a red leather suit and beating the crap out of bad guys, of course. Not for the first time, Karen muses at how she didn’t see it. Obviously, Matt had been a big, fat liar, but still. She was an investigator, for crying out loud! And the signs were all there, that Matt was Daredevil. The sudden and unexplained absences, his frequent bruises...the senses that were a bit _too sharp_ and the physique that was a bit _too fit_ for a blind guy. The truth was, she probably didn’t see it because she didn’t want to. There was a part of her, ever since she left Vermont, that wanted to be that nice girl that meets that nice guy and settles down to live a nice, normal life. And that’s how Matt had seen her, back when they were together. As that nice girl he kissed in the rain on her apartment’s front steps. (But that’s not who she was, not really. Maybe it’s who she could’ve been, _before_. Before the economy went to shit, her mom got sick, and she flipped the car that killed her brother.) She and Matt saw each other clearer now, after everything that went down with Wilson Fisk and the Daredevil imposter. Now that she knew his big secret and he knew one of hers. But whatever they had between them once, was now long gone. She loved Matt, she’d always love Matt. But in the same way she loved Foggy. As a friend, as family.

“Yeah yeah,” Foggy interrupts her train of thought, waving Matt off. “Just don’t take too much of a beating tonight, please. I need you looking pretty for tomorrow. We have that deposition, bright and early.”

“No promises,” Matt chuckles. He wishes them both a good night and slips through the crowd of bar patrons milling about to make his exit.

“8 AM, Matt! 8 AM sharp!” Foggy hollers after him, as the door to Josie’s bangs shut upon his retreating figure.

There’s a moment of companionable silence between the investigator and the lawyer left sitting at the table, before Karen turns to Foggy on a whim.

“I have to tell you something.”

Foggy faces her with a dreamy look in his eyes, no doubt fantasizing about married life with Marci. Karen has a feeling his expression is going to change dramatically, any minute now.

“You’re cheating on God, too?”

“Just with cheap booze,” she jokes, saluting him with her beer bottle before bringing it to her lips for a drink. She takes a sip and then sets it aside, growing serious.

“What you said earlier...about wanting Matt and I to have someone in our lives? Well, there is, or there  _was_  someone I care about—it’s Frank.” She’s full of nervous energy, anxious to see his reaction to her long-held secret. A secret she kept even from herself, truly.

“Wait, what? Could you repeat that?” Foggy looks adorably befuddled, brows drawn together in confusion. “I must've misheard you.”

“Frank Castle, he’s my someone. I love him, Foggy.” She bites her lip, waiting him out.

“Yeah, okay. Either I’m _way_ drunker than I thought, or you just said you were in love with _Frank Castle_. The mass murdering psychopath that we defended from _thirty-seven_ counts of homicide...”

“Foggy, I—”

“Meat hooks!” He yells out suddenly, startling her. A number of heads turn in their direction at his outburst, causing Foggy to flush and lower his volume to almost a whisper. “He put people on meat hooks, Karen. Bad people. Mexican cartel members...but still.  _Meat hooks.”_

(The _that’s horror movie shit, Karen_ isn’t spoken. But it’s heavily implied by the wild-eyed look he’s sending her way.)

“I know, Foggy. I—,” she runs her fingers through her hair, ruffling the blond strands. “I just—I know it’s crazy, okay? _Batshit crazy_. But I can’t change the way I feel,” she touches her mouth with her hand. “I don't condone everything he's done, everything he _does_. But there's a goodness in him, Foggy. A light in the darkness. He's saved my life, he’s saved so many lives. I’d be dead three times over if not for him.”

“Wait a minute, just _wait a minute_ ,” the wheels are turning in his head as he thinks back. “That long lunch you took a while ago. When I called you and you didn’t answer. And then you finally called back to say you weren’t feeling well and were taking the rest of the day off. I saw it on the news. The Punisher was in the hospital. You went to see him, didn’t you?” Foggy questions, the puzzle pieces seemingly coming together.

Karen nods, repentant somewhat over the past deception.

“Well, _fuck.”_

Foggy blows out a big breath, falling back into his chair heavily. “You know, as your friend, I should probably be very concerned about the fact that you see _here be dragons, there be quicksand_ and plow straight on through anyways.”

He yanks on his tie, loosening it, in what appears to be more of an attempt at finding something to do with his hands than an attempt at getting comfortable.

“I mean, Frank Castle.  _Frank. Castle._ As far as potential romantic partners go, he has more red flags than a communist parade! And once again, as your friend, I should tell you that getting involved with Frank Castle is a really,  _really_ bad idea. But—”

“But?”

“You’re Karen Page. You care so much,  _too much_ maybe, about everyone. And if there’s any good in Frank Castle, I trust you to be the one to find it.” He's solemn, and she feels bad about stepping on his happiness over his impending engagement.

But Foggy, ever the loyal friend, merely smiles at her. “I want you to be happy, Karen. And if Frank Castle makes you happy, _God knows I’ll never understand why_ , I’ll support it. Because I support you. My smart, brave, strong, beautiful,  _badass_ friend.”

“Thanks, Foggy.” Her throat is clogged with emotion, unshed tears shining in her eyes. “I appreciate it, more than you know.”

She tosses her head back, as if to clear it. “But it doesn’t matter, anyways, because he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want anyone.”

“Karen,” Foggy starts to say, but she cuts him off.

“No, it’s okay, really. I mean, _it’s not_ , but...I told him how I felt. At the hospital. Asked him to choose me instead of another war. And he said no.”

“Well, _double fuck.”_

Karen laughs sincerely. Trust Foggy to make her feel better about her heartbreak.

It's been five months since the hospital, almost half a year gone since she'd seen Frank Castle.

_You gotta walk away now, Karen._

So she pulled those fire alarms, wished him luck, and walked out with her feet bare and her eyes dry. And if she stopped to look back? Well, there’d been no one around to see it.

If there was no rest for the wicked, then there was no rest for Frank Castle either. The eternal torment of Hell may await evildoers, but it was Frank's job to send them there. Evidence of the Punisher's relentless one-man war on violent criminals and other assorted scum could be seen on an almost nightly basis on local news. 

**Brooklyn man alleged to have been behind 17 sex-assault robberies castrated and left to bleed out in a back alley in Bushwick**

**Four Long Island MS-13 gang members found dead in Massapequa Park, local residents describe a "gruesome scene"**

**The bullet-riddled body of a public school teacher turned child pornographer was discovered by his neighbor in his Queens apartment**  

For most, the visage of a white skull with long, dripping teeth was a harbinger of death that struck fear into the hearts and minds of those who sought to prey upon the innocent. The Punisher was the monster that monsters feared. 

But not Karen. 

No, she scoured the crime section of the  _New York Bulletin_ over her morning coffee like a teenage girl would a gossip column about the latest heartthrob. Reading those accounts gave her a sense of peace, because it meant Frank was still  _alive_ , still  _breathing_ , still  _out there_  somewhere.

Not for the first time, she’s left wondering what a younger, less hardened, more idealistic Karen Page would think about the fact that these days, she finds strength in a gun and comfort in violence. The Karen Page that would lie awake at night in her bedroom in the small, sleepy town in Vermont she’d grown up in and dream of New York City like most girls her age would dream of a prince on a white horse. Well, they could keep the white horse, she’d take the man who wore the white skull instead.  _If only he'd let her_.

“Just so you know,” Foggy's voice pulls her back out of her thoughts and into the present. “Marci has been dying to set you up with one of her  _totally hot and super available_ co-workers. Her words, not mine,” he rolls his eyes but there’s obvious affection in the gesture.

“And maybe it’ll do you some good,” he continues on, “you work too hard, I worry about you.”

“Thanks, Foggy. I’ll keep it in mind.” Karen smiles in gratitude, leaning over to peck his cheek as she stands and pulls her trench coat on over her signature blouse-and-pencil skirt combo.

“Well I'm going to run. I want to stop back by the office for a minute, to grab some files.”

“See? Like I said, workaholic.”

Foggy stands also, picking up his briefcase from the floor and pushing his chair back in.

“I’d better go, too. Marci’s making dinner tonight. Some new recipe she’s been practicing.”

Karen slides the strap of her purse over her shoulder and follows Foggy to the exit.

“Do you want me to come with you?” He asks her, once they’ve left Josie’s.

“No, that's okay. I could use the air.”

Foggy tactfully refrains from mentioning that there's already plenty of air, since they're _outside_ ; instead giving her an understanding nod.

Karen bids him adieu until tomorrow, and then she’s off into the night. Her heels tapping quickly on the pavement as she walks the five blocks to their new office.

 

* * *

 

It takes Karen longer than she expected to find the files she needed back at the firm, something that can be attributed to the recent move. At present, her office ranks slightly higher than  _freshman male’s college dorm room_  on the organization scale, with boxes of old case files lying about everywhere.

Karen tucks the folders safely away into her Mary Poppins’ bag of a purse and makes her way back towards the front, flicking off light switches as she goes. Depositing her keys into her purse after locking up, she steps back onto the sidewalk to admire the newly installed etched glass panel that adorns the front door...

**Nelson, Murdock & Page**

**Justice Never Stops**  

(Matt had vetoed the tag line, but Foggy was adamant.  _Superheroes don’t have a monopoly on catchphrases, Matt._ )

Her life had changed so much in the four short years she had known Matthew Murdock and Franklin Nelson. Both professionally and personally. She had gone from being their client, to their legal secretary, to her current position as their investigator and business partner.

And of course, there was all the people she had met along the way. Like Mrs. Cardenas, and Ben Urich, and  _Frank Castle_. 

At the thought of him, her gaze is immediately drawn downward; to the two large ceramic pots, a form of payment from a client, that sit on either side of the front door. They each house matching rose bushes that are just beginning to flower.

“White roses, huh?” A low, gruff voice calls out from the street behind her.

She turns, and there he is.

Frank Castle. In the flesh.

It’s as if she conjured him up by sheer  _wanting_. 

Her eyes drink him in from where she stands a few feet away. He’s wearing his usual uniform of dark hoodie, jeans, and boots. He looks good, probably the best she’d ever seen him look. There’s a scratch above his left eyebrow and a few bruised knuckles. But other than that, he seems relatively unharmed—healthy, whole, _safe_.

“Yeah,” she glances down at the ground for a moment before meeting his gaze head-on. “You know something? I used to dislike roses, actually. Thought they were overrated. But then someone gave me some once and it changed my opinion of them.”

The corners of Frank’s mouth turn up into a gentle smile at that, at the memory. His naturally intimidating demeanor is instantly transformed.

But then he seems to take notice of her crossed arms, her defensive posture, and he presses his lips together as his expression sobers.

“Can we go someplace? To talk.”

He has an unsure, almost sheepish look on his face now. She recognizes the look as one she'd seen before, on her family dog, after the Page household returned home one Easter to find her brother's chocolate bunny missing and a guilty canine in its place.

Karen hesitates. There’s a weight to the moment. It feels like she’s on the precipice of something big. 

She weighs her options.

She could say no. Simply cross the street and start the twenty minute trek home to her apartment, alone. Go on living her life as she has these past five _Frank-less_ months, finding value in her career and taking comfort in her friends.

Or she could say yes. Most likely signing herself up for more heartache. Is she so masochistic? He’s not going to stay. History has shown that all they’re ever going to share in this life is a few stolen moments, after all.

Karen has a flashback to the first time they’d met face to face. Back in that first hospital room.  _After she’d broken into his house when all she had was his name_. Frank beat to hell and tied down to that hospital bed. Those sad, dark eyes staring into her soul as he asked her to stay.

And so she makes her decision.

She steps off the curb, like she’d stepped over that red line of tape on the floor that day.

(She'd never been able to deny him anything. Why start now?)


	2. Bourbon Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back, y’all! Sorry I made you wait forever but life has been crazy. My sister’s getting married this weekend and as her bitch—I mean, maid of honor—it’s been hard to find time to write. I hope you like this chapter, I did some research & borrowed from the comics for the Ori stuff. Don’t be too mad at Frank with his mixed signals, our boy is still fighting his feelings. He’ll get it together eventually, I promise. Anyways, without further ado, here’s chapter two!

They walk in silence for the entirety of the journey to her apartment. Karen, because she’s too lost in thought; and Frank, because he’s merely following her lead. It’s no matter. New York City is more than happy to oblige. Distant sirens from emergency vehicles, barking dogs, honking cars, bursts of loud music, and commuter chatter compose the symphony of noise that is an average evening in The City That Never Sleeps. That was the biggest adjustment Karen had to make when she first moved to Hell’s Kitchen. Nights in Fagan Corners were dark and deserted, so unlike the constant ambient noise she’s accustomed to now.

It was funny how living in a place with over eight million people, she could still feel so alone sometimes. _Well, not right now_. Not with Frank by her side.

Karen lives in an elevator building, but she takes the stairs up to her apartment and Frank dutifully follows. (If he notices that she’s purposefully avoiding the elevator, he doesn’t say anything.)

The last time they’d been in an elevator together was after he’d saved her from Lewis Wilson. She still remembers that day at the hotel like it was yesterday. Having the breath knocked out of her as Frank pushed her to the ground when Lewis blew himself up...the metal press of the gun under her chin following Frank’s reluctant agreement to fake a hostage situation...the absolute relief she felt after the elevator doors closed behind them without a trigger-happy cop ignoring Mahoney’s stand down order. 

And then there was _that moment._

It was a moment of _rest_.

It was a moment of _peace_ , in the midst of his war.

Her ears were still ringing from the explosion; the smell of burnt tar hanging in the air from the C-4, along with the coppery tang of blood. But none of it mattered. Karen’s entire existence, her whole world was narrowed down to just one person.

_Frank._

Frank, a myriad of injuries. Shrapnel protruding from his arm, a bloody gash above his ear, a bad limp in his leg, and no doubt a hefty dose of bruising under his bulletproof vest from the two bullets he took for her.

She believed for a split second that he’d kiss her, but instead he simply touched his forehead to hers. “Interpersonal synchronization” is what neuroscientists called it. The idea that when two people who care deeply for one another touch, their heart rates and respiratory rhythms synchronize, causing a decrease in pain.

And _oh_ , how Karen longed to take away his pain.

To the world at large, Frank Castle was an animal on the prowl; constantly moving and stalking around with a near permanent scowl on his face and a gravelly voice that could cut sharper than metal and glass combined. But there was another side to him. A side only a select few got the privilege to know. A side that made it so easy for her to forgive him anything, to want to take away his suffering and bring it upon herself if she could. And it breaks her heart because he won’t stop  _punishing_  himself, won’t accept the comfort she could give him.

As soon as Karen crosses the threshold into her apartment, she’s off in a blur of motion. She unties her trench coat from around her waist and tosses it over the rack near the front door, before busying herself with kicking off her heels in the entryway and dumping her purse onto a chair in her sorry excuse for a dining room. There’s a restlessness under her skin, an antsy feeling that has been building up inside her since she and Frank left the law office. So naturally, she goes for the ultimate social lubricant: alcohol.

“Want anything to drink?” Karen calls out from the kitchen, eyeing Frank from where she’s positioned behind the island. “Beer? Coffee? Water?”

Frank is standing in the living room area near the couch, right where she left him. His eyes are scanning the place, probably taking note of all possible entries and exits. Or making a mental list of all available weapons. Old habits die hard, she supposes.

He finishes his perusal, apparently satisfied with the overall safety level of her apartment. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Karen nods in acknowledgment, before turning to retrieve two whiskey tumblers from the cabinet behind her. (She briefly considers the craft beer in her refrigerator that Foggy brought over with some takeout last week, but ultimately decides against it. She already had a beer at Josie’s earlier, and she has a feeling she’s going to need something stronger for this conversation, anyways.)

“What happened to your sidekick?” She asks, going up on her toes for a moment to grab the bottle of Four Roses Small Batch she keeps on top of her fridge.

“Put her on a bus to Florida. An old buddy of mine from the Corps is gonna watch out for her,” he says, watching her intently as she drops three ice cubes in each glass. “Kid wants to be a diver. Wants to explore shipwrecks, hunt for hidden treasure and shit like that.”

“I think she’s watched Titanic one too many times,” he jokes, voice warm with fondness.

Karen looks up from pouring bourbon to catch Frank leaning against the back of her couch, his body language relaxed and a sweet smile on his face.

_He must’ve been an incredible father_ , she muses for what feels like the hundredth time.

She picks up the drinks from the counter; before making her way towards him, the contrast of the cool kitchen tile giving way to the soft carpet of her living room causing her toes to curl slightly.

“So...” she prompts, handing him the bourbon on the rocks in her left hand and taking a large gulp of her own drink in the right. She revels in the slight burn of the whiskey, feeling warmed up from the inside out. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

Frank takes the offered glass with a muttered thanks, courteous as always. His eyebrows raise slightly at her sudden display of thirst, but he remains mum. Instead he downs a mouthful of his own drink, his lips quirking up in approval at the taste of leather along with undercurrents of vanilla and caramel.

“I have something to give you, actually,” he tells her, switching his tumbler to the other hand before reaching into the front pocket of his jeans to grab something. He drops the small, smooth object into her hand.

It’s a flash drive.

Intrigued, Karen peers over the nondescript data storage device before looking to Frank for further explanation.

“Remember our old _friend_  Senator Stan Ori?” His lower lip curls in disgust at the term of affection and at the man himself. “Well, it turns out he made some other friends. The Bessucho family.”

During her time at the Bulletin, Karen had done a lot of in-depth research into New York’s organized crime scene. The Bessucho family were mafia, an American offshoot of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra, led by Elio Bessucho.

“But the Bessuchos are small fry, aren’t they?” Karen questions, moving to sit on the couch. They were ranked second-tier in the mob hierarchy, if she remembers correctly from her days on the crime beat. “Seems a little beneath Ori, craven political animal that he is.”

“Well they  _were_ small fry.”

Something about the way he uses the past tense leads her to believe that the Bessucho family aren’t much of anything, anymore. And his next statement confirms it.

“I’ve been hitting the mafia pretty hard lately.”

Frank sinks down onto the couch beside her, continuing on. “Fisk’s downfall three years ago left a power vacuum in the shitbag circuit. A lot of lesser players have risen in power since, and not just the Blacksmith.”

His jaw tightens at the mention of the dirty bastard that sanctioned the massacre of his family. Karen herself feels a shiver run through her at the memory of Ray Shoonover, her one-time would-be murderer if not for Frank.

She shakes off the negative recollection, sipping at her bourbon. “And one of those lesser players is—or _was_ , the Bessucho family,” she concludes, earning an affirming nod from Frank.

“So what’s on this?” Karen displays the flash drive still clutched in her hand, before reaching out to place it on the coffee table as she transitions into investigator mode.

“Evidence Ori is a corrupt scumbag on the mob’s payroll,” Frank succinctly states.

He takes a drink of whiskey, expression grim. “Two nights ago, I busted up a human trafficking ring in Upper Manhattan. The Bessuchos’ last remaining criminal enterprise.”

“Seventeen women...well children mostly, from Eastern Europe,” he elaborates. 

Prostitution was the world’s oldest profession; and as such human trafficking had been a New York staple since the early 20th century, Karen thinks bitterly. She knew the standard operating procedure well, unfortunately. Another byproduct of her time as a reporter. Immigrants trafficked in and then circulated to various brothels around the city. Their pimps got them hooked on drugs and alcohol to keep them compliant, threatening them with deportation or physical violence if they talked to anyone or tried to run.

“Fuck, Karen, they were so young,” he sits forward abruptly, setting his half-empty glass on the table in front of him. Frank turns towards her on the couch, rubbing his face hard with his hands before his gaze drifts off and to the side.

“There was this one girl...she looked like my baby girl,” he swallows hard, his throat working. “She even wore her hair in pigtails like my Lisa used to.”

His face is pained as he continues. “She was 13. She knew some English, so I talked to her a bit—to get her to calm down, yeah? They promised her a job as a waitress. Opportunity in a rich country,  _the American dream_ , ya know?” He spits the phrase out like it’s an offense, like it’s a sick joke.

“Instead they got her  _servicing_ ,” he chokes out, the word tasting acrid on his tongue, “up to twenty pieces of shit a day.” Frank rocks back and forth on the couch now, his trigger finger tapping incessantly against his denim-clad thigh. “ _Twenty_ , Karen.”

She has to press her fingers into her own thighs to keep herself from reaching out towards him. It had been five months since they’d seen each other; and even though he’d freely come to her tonight, she’s still not sure where they stand. If she’s allowed to touch him, if he’d even accept it. She wonders how long it’s been since someone touched him with love instead of hate, to instill comfort instead of inflicting pain, and she  _wants._ Wants so bad that it unnerves her. 

So she takes the cowardly way out and changes the subject. “How was Ori involved in this?”

“He’s been using his influence at the State Department to get visas for the girls they bring in.”

Frank grins wickedly now, and it’s all teeth like a predator. His sudden change in mood gives her whiplash. “Seems Elio Bessucho lacked faith in the Senator. He kept digital records of all their dealings, just in case.”

“And just how did you gain access to this blackmail?” Karen probes, glancing at the flash drive before looking back at Frank.

His eyes darken dramatically at the question, his tone turning icy. “Bessucho was right to distrust people. One of his pimps was very talkative, when given the proper incentive.”

Karen has a vision of Frank. _No._ Not Frank. _The Punisher._ Giving the men a taste of their own medicine. Maybe confining them in a dog kennel like they would do to their victims. Tying them up and torturing them until they talk. Threatening to mete out unbearable suffering upon them, making them piss and shit themselves in fear.

An internal voice that sounds suspiciously like Matthew Murdock’s tells her that she’s crazy. That the man she welcomed into her apartment tonight commits stomach-turning acts of violence on the regular. That he spends his nights breaking bones, slashing skin, and peppering bodies with bullets.

That he’s rage incarnate. An avenging angel. The spirit of vengeance given human flesh. 

_And yet._

There’s a gentleness in him; a softness in his voice when he speaks of his children, of his family. A tenderness when he looks at her.

Karen Page could never be described as naive. Maybe she grew up in a small town, but _she_ had never been small. She knew what loving a man like Frank Castle meant, what it entailed. The traumas he had endured, the nightmares that still plagued him, the sheer brutality he was capable of and often willingly took part in.

_And yet._

“So why is Stan Ori still breathing?” She blatantly asks, deciding to dive right in instead of pussyfooting around.

Frank sucks in a breath, caught off guard by her directness. Nevertheless, he answers honestly. “Because to a snake like Ori, a political death is a worse punishment than a real one.”

Karen nods in agreement, eyes watching the condensation drip down to leave a watery mark on her pencil skirt from where she rests her whiskey glass on her lap. Senator Stan Ori had worked tirelessly to gain power, to make the public love him. The drop in poll numbers alone might kill him. Not to mention whatever the feds would have in store for him.

She leans forward, depositing her tumbler next to Frank’s on the coffee table before meeting his gaze head-on. “Why come to me? Surely you could’ve gotten the drive to Mahoney yourself, somehow? Why involve me at all?”

“Because the fucker used you as a human shield against Lewis Wilson, and you deserve to be the one to take him down.” 

The response is quick and certainly passionate, but it rings somewhat false to Karen. There’s something in his tone that makes it sound less like a statement and more like a question. Like he’s stalling, hoping to distract her from the real reason for his sudden reappearance in her life.

“But why now, Frank?” She appreciated his desire to involve her in Ori’s deserved comeuppance. But there was something he was leaving unsaid. And Karen Page was called relentless on a good day, and referred to as a dog with a bone on a bad day. “Why pop back up now after five months of radio silence?”

“Shit, Karen. I don’t know,” he rubs at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maybe because, because I—” he stammers, surprising her. Karen had never seen Frank act so unsure of himself before; he’s always so assertive, so focused that the sight is borderline alarming. He jumps up from the couch, wandering away but still staying within arm’s reach. He seems to be experiencing a sort of internal battle within himself from where he stands, and she’s uncertain if she should remain seated or not. Finally, he lets out a long sigh. “Maybe I just missed you, yeah?”

His lips pull up into a bashful smile, and Karen feels herself melt and go boneless at the sight. A warm current runs through her body, like sinking into a hot bath after a long day.

His eyes go soft, relaxing around the edges. “Maybe I’m weak as hell and just needed an excuse to see you again.”

She has an errant thought that Frank Castle’s love language is flowers and evidence of felony crimes, and has to fight back an inappropriate laugh.

Her heart is racing now, beating so loud in her chest that she’s sure he must be able to hear it too. “So what now, Frank? What does this mean?”

“It...it can’t mean anything.”

“I—what?”

“Nothing’s changed, Karen,” his expression is tender, yet resigned. “Nothing’s changed since the hospital.”

“What are you talking about?” She practically leaps from the couch, hands fisted and teeth gritted in irritation. “Your war? Is that what this is about?”

He nods, avoiding eye contact.

The thing was, she understood why he turned her down that day in the hospital.

He was a husband without a wife.

He was a father without children.

He couldn’t be a Marine without a war,  _too._

_But that didn’t make it hurt any less._

“You’re fighting a war that will never end, Frank,” she asserts, moving in closer to him. “For every violent criminal you take off the street, there are a thousand more. Don’t you see that?”

“How can you say that, Karen? How can you say what I do doesn’t matter?” He responds back, obvious hurt in his voice. “Every night, I go out and put down these shitbags. I look into their eyes, and I see their potential victims. I see Lisa, or Maria, or Frankie, or sometimes all three.”

“Don’t you get that, Karen?” He’s pleading now, desperate to make her understand. “Because I do what I do, I prevent another me. I keep some poor bastard from losing everything like I did. That’s what I do.”

Karen exhales sharply through her nose in frustration. “I understand that. And of course it matters. But it can’t be all there is. There has to be _something else_ , something besides this constant rage. If not, it’s going to burn up all the good inside you. And there’s _so much good_ inside you, Frank,” she beseeches him, blue eyes looking deep into brown.

She huffs again, tucking some loose strands of hair that have fallen into her face back behind her ear. “If you would just try—”

“I tried,” he cuts in, volume just above a whisper.

“Then you can—wait, what?” She stops short, mouth closing with an audible click.

“I tried, Karen,” his voice is louder now. “After the carousel, after I put Bill in the hospital with brain damage. Madani and Homeland gave me a clean slate and a new name. _Pete Castiglione_.”

Frank pauses his storytelling for a moment, sending her a wry grin. “I came up with the name. You remember when I came to you for help in finding David Lieberman?” She nods, and he keeps going. “Well I was working construction at the time, living in some flea-ridden SRO in Long Island City. There was a diner I used to go to off Queens Boulevard, about five minutes from my place. Called Pete’s Diner and Grill.”

Karen rolls her eyes good-naturedly, shaking her head in amusement.  _Of course_. Of course Frank would give himself an alias after a diner he liked.

“And Castiglione?” She questions, mouth curved upwards in a smile.

“Old family name, actually. They Anglicized when they came over from Italy,” he smiles back at her. But then the corners of his mouth drop down into a straight line, his mood darkening.

“Anyways, I left the city. Drove around a bit, tried the whole _normal life_  thing. And there was a woman. We spent the night together.”

Karen’s proud of herself, for the way she keeps her expression neutral.

“Her name was Beth. She was a bartender at this road bar outside Detroit.”

She had no claim on him, after all; she has no right to be jealous or upset. Besides, it was good news. She remembers that time by the East River when she told Frank that she wanted more for him, wanted there to be an  _after._

“I met her son. And I told her my name, my real name.”

He was simply following her advice, attempting to move on from his past. Trying to let go of the fear, insanity, and rage that were his constant companions since that fateful day at the Central Park Carousel.

But damn it, if it didn’t hurt to hear.

“It could’ve been something, something more than one night. But it went to shit. And she got shot.”

Karen’s head snaps up at that, pulling her from her thoughts.

“She got shot, and almost died. And it was my fault. Because of me and my bullshit, a little boy was almost orphaned.” 

He looks pained, mouth taut and eyes tortured. She closes the distance between them, no longer able to resist the urge to touch him. She runs her right hand down his shoulder, while her left finds a spot to rest on his bicep. As soon as she makes contact, Frank draws a startled breath. He inhales deeply through his mouth like that of a drowning man coming up for air after a period underwater. His own hands come up, wrapping around her elbows as he pulls her impossibly closer. He drops his head forward, forehead meeting hers like that day in the elevator.

“Oh, Frank,” Karen breathes out, her heart breaking for him and the burdens he carries. The ones thrust upon him, and the ones he imposes upon himself.

She’s reminded of Satan’s horrific burst of self-knowledge in John Milton’s epic poem  _Paradise Lost,_ “which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.” Or everywhere I go is Hell, because I am Hell. Is that how Frank saw himself? This war of his...maybe it was a noble endeavor, but it was also a cursed one.

“I can’t let anything happen to you, Karen.  _I can’t,_ ” he mumbles, his breath tickling her lips. The way he speaks makes it sound like a continual reminder, like a chant or an invocation.

She’s hit suddenly, with a wave of exhaustion. Karen’s not sleepy, but  _tired._ The kind of exhaustion that manifests itself as a splitting headache and sore, itchy eyes after pulling an all-nighter. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes after the body fights off the flu or some other viral infection.

She allows herself a moment more of standing with him, bodies almost swaying in a silent slow dance. Their foreheads pressed together, their heartbeats and breathing in sync. Eventually though, she disentangles herself and pulls back, moving a few feet away from him.

Frank must see the signs of fatigue on her face, because he looks shamed and vaguely apologetic.

“Karen, I—” he starts, but she cuts him off before he gets far.

“I don’t like cats.”

“I—what?” The sudden change in topic has him confused, brows drawn together in befuddlement.

“You know why I don’t like cats, Frank?” She continues on.

He’s tight-lipped, but he shakes his head no in answer and waits her out.

“Well for one,” she ticks off on her fingers, “I’m a dog person. But mainly because I had a bad experience as a child.”

“You see, my grandmother had a cat. A mangy old thing. Kept ruining the furniture and stuff,” she crosses her arms across her chest, but it’s relaxed instead of defensive. “It was mean as hell too. You try to pet it, and it would bite and scratch the shit out of you.”

“One day, I finally asked her...I asked her why she kept it around. And you know what she said?”

Frank shakes his head, but she’s too caught up in her childhood memories to notice.

“She said that it was because she liked having another heartbeat around the house.”

Karen smiles softly, eyes bright with nostalgia. “I think I was too young to understand what she meant by that. The _loneliness._ But I do now.”

“Do you remember when I told you that maybe all life really is, is trying not to be lonely?”

Frank nods, listening with rapt attention.

“Well sometimes when I’m at home in my apartment, I turn the tv on,” she gestures briefly at her television behind him. “Doesn’t matter what’s playing. Could be anything. I keep the volume low, it’s background noise really. But it helps. It helps me feel less alone, ya know?”

“Yeah," he clears his throat, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I know.”

“Good.” She turns to walk closer to the front door and he trails along behind her, “because maybe I can’t stop you from fighting this endless war. And maybe I don’t even want to stop you anymore.”

She’s in the entryway now, and she stoops down to pick up the forgotten high heels that she ditched earlier. She straightens, shoes in hand to face him again.

“But don’t forget, Frank. That just because you’re different, just because you can do these incredible, _terrible_ things...you’re still just a man. And you’re still just as lonely as the rest of us.”

She lets out a small, sad smile. “Just,” she puts her right hand up, resting it lightly on his chest above his heart, “just remember that, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, voice rough with emotion. He lifts her hand from his chest, and gives a delicate kiss to her palm before releasing it with a gentle squeeze.

“Goodnight, Karen.” He opens the door and steps out of her apartment and into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Frank,” she replies softly, maintaining eye contact until he finally turns and disappears down the hall.

Karen locks her front door and makes her way towards her bedroom to put her heels away in her closet. She still has work to do tonight, files to organize and a deposition to prepare for. Yet, she can’t stop thinking about Frank. She wonders if their goodbye will stick this time. She has a strange, wonderful feeling it won’t.


	3. Breakfastus Interruptus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters of Adam Pincente and David Murphy are my own creation, but the Gnuccis are from the comics & TP season 1. Don’t hate me for the cliffhanger ending, it had to be done ;)

She finds him on Saturday morning sitting in a diner in Maspeth, Queens. It’s a charming little spot. A small piece of Americana in the midst of the city, it instills a feeling of more halcyon days. Of Route 66 and freak rock formations. There’s a jukebox in the corner and signed sports memorabilia hanging on the walls. It reminds Karen somewhat of her family’s diner in Vermont, before her father ran it into the ground. Back when her mother was alive, when the atmosphere was warm with love instead of cold with despair.

“My one day off in over a month,” Sergeant Mahoney shakes his head in exasperation. “And here you are, disturbing my breakfast.”

“Good morning to you too, Brett,” she says with a grin, sliding into the seat opposite him in the booth.

“How did you even find me? I purposely keep this diner a secret from the guys at the station. Only my secretary knows about this place, and she’s sworn to secrecy,” he questions, eyeing her with suspicion.

“Investigator, remember?” Karen reminds him, pointing at herself.

The waitress, a middle-aged woman in a worn apron, interrupts to deliver his order. “An egg and cheese omelette, with a side of sausage and bacon,” she announces, setting the hot plate of food down on the table.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” She asks him, re-filling his mug with freshly brewed coffee from the glass coffee pot she’s carrying in her right hand.

“Just keep the coffee coming if you don’t mind,” he shoots a pointed look in Karen’s direction, “I have a feeling I might need it.”

“Alright. And for you?” She looks towards Karen expectantly.

“Vanilla cappuccino, please.”

“Anything to eat? Our blueberry pancakes are legendary around here,” she smiles, eyes tired but affable.

“Just the drink. I already ate on my way over,” Karen explains. The waitress nods in acquiescence.

“I’ll be right back with that cappuccino.” She departs from the table, going to re-fill more coffees and serve other customers.

“Please, feel free to join me,” Mahoney remarks, sarcasm dripping off every word.

“Oh come on, you love us over at Nelson, Murdock & Page. Just admit it,” she teases him.

He huffs, tossing his tie over his shoulder and cutting into his omelette. “So,” he pauses to shovel in a forkful of egg and cheese, “what is it you got into this time?”

“Not me, actually. A mutual friend.” She reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out the flash drive.

Mahoney takes a break from eating his omelette, stopping to wipe his mouth with a napkin before picking up the drive she’s placed on the table.

He looks to her for further clarification, eyebrows pulled together. “What’s on this?”

“Evidence Senator Stan Ori is in the mob’s pocket. He’s been getting pretty hot and heavy with the Bessucho family for a long time now.”

He blows out a breath, “Damn. Ori is in with the mafia? Man, I knew the guy was a prick but I didn’t think he was dirty.”

“It’s bad. We’re talking numerous felony crimes. He’s been actively facilitating human trafficking.”

Mahoney lets out a low whistle, shaking his head in disgust as he pockets the flash drive. “I have some friends in the FBI, real straight shooters. Ori will get his due, they’ll make sure of it.”

Karen thanks him, just as the waitress appears to deliver her vanilla cappuccino. She sets the cup with saucer down on the table with a smile before bustling off again.

Mahoney pulls a face as she sips at her cappuccino. “How can you drink that swill? It’s just pure sugar.”

Karen shrugs, amused by his exaggerated distaste.

“Now this,” he declares, holding up his own beverage, “this is real coffee.” He tips the mug back, drinking a mouthful before his expression turns wistful. “My old man had this saying. I’m a regular Joe, and I like my joe regular.”

It brings thoughts of another person she knows that drinks his coffee black.  _Frank._

As if he can read her mind, Mahoney turns to her with narrowed eyes. “So, this _mutual friend_? The one who just so happened to come upon this evidence? It wasn’t the one with the pointy red ears, was it? It was  _the other one._ ”

Karen nods, eyes averted downwards into the cup in front of her. Her fingers play along the edge as she gazes down into the swirl of steamed milk, vanilla syrup, and espresso.

He purses his lips in disapproval, face taking on the classic  _disappointed but not surprised_ look. “You’re a nice lady, Karen. Too nice to be hanging around with the likes of Frank Castle.”

Karen looks up sharply, hackles already rising in defense of Frank. But she fights back the urge to be his champion, choosing to be diplomatic instead.

“You flatter me, Brett. But no one is  _too nice_ in this city.” 

“If they were, they wouldn’t live here,” she jokes; before tipping back her cappuccino, lips curled up into a smirk around the rim.

Mahoney chuckles, drinking his coffee. “You may be right about that.” 

His gaze turns thoughtful as his mood sobers. “I love this city. And I know the majority of the people in it are good, honest people that just want to work hard and raise a family in peace. But there’s still so much violence, so much corruption. I wonder sometimes if _we_  spawn these monsters. You know that saying...no pressure, no diamonds? Well, maybe it works the other way too.  _No steaming pile of shit, no shitbags_.”

Karen drinks the rest of her cappuccino, eyes soft with understanding. She knows what he means. As much as she loves working with Matt and Foggy, sometimes she misses her job as a reporter. The feeling of using the written word to bring truth to power, of making Ben Urich proud. Sunlight was said to be the best disinfectant and she misses being that light at the Bulletin. What she doesn’t miss is the letdown. The disappointment that came when she landed a big fish, only for them to wiggle off the hook last minute. Or to manage to successfully drain a portion of the swamp, only for it to fill right back up again.

“Speaking of shitbags,” Mahoney says, interrupting her reminiscing of her journalist days. “I was going to call Foggy later, but seeing as you’re already here,” he reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and takes out a post-it note with a name scribbled on it in black ink.

“Who’s Adam Pincente?” Karen asks, glancing down at the crumpled piece of paper he handed to her.

“The aforementioned shitbag. He’s a suspected murderer sitting in lock-up right now. Found by the cleaning lady in a hotel room with a dead escort. Looks to be a pretty open-and-shut case. Signs of a struggle, he was covered in her blood,” he pauses. “But...”

“But?” Karen leans in close, intrigued.

“But the guy’s been ranting nonstop since they arrested him about how he didn’t do it. How he’s being framed by the Gnuccis.”

Mahoney picks up his fork, taking a bite of sausage. “Funny that. You bring me evidence Senator Ori’s in with the Bessuchos, and I give you a name of a guy claiming he’s being set-up by another mob family.”

Yeah,  _funny that,_ Karen muses. The Punisher’s going after the mafia, and now Nelson, Murdock & Page was too. It seemed God or fate or whatever was determined to bring Frank and her back together, one way or another.

“Anyways, I figured you guys would be the only firm dumb enough to take the case,” Mahoney winks, eyes twinkling with mirth as he goes back to eating his omelette.

Karen rolls her eyes, huffing out a laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

She gets up from the booth to leave, pocketing the post-it note and dropping a five-dollar bill on the table to pay for her drink.

She hesitates; standing next to him with her purse tucked over her shoulder before leaning in, voice conspiratorial and eyes mischievous.

“So that secretary of yours, the one sworn to secrecy about this place?” She’s all Mona Lisa smile.

“Well, it turns out she has a weakness for anything lemon. Scones, tarts, cookies, pie, cake...you name it.”

_Son of a bitch_ , he curses under his breath. But Karen merely swipes a strip of bacon off his plate and turns to leave, popping it into her mouth as Mahoney sputters in protest. She pauses at the exit to the diner a moment to wave goodbye; but then she’s through the door and down the street, her coat and floral dress underneath billowing in the wind.

 

* * *

 

Nelson, Murdock & Page’s clientele these days was a mixture of the poor and working class families that were the bastion of Hell’s Kitchen, along with affluent Wall Street financiers and wannabe actors that followed Foggy over when he left Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz.

Adam Pincente fit into the second category. He was nouveau riche. A businessman in his mid-thirties, he co-owned a land development company called  _M &P Developers _with his business partner, David Murphy.

“So let me get this straight,” Foggy says, rubbing at his forehead with one hand while the other clutches a paper cup of subpar coffee. He’s seated next to Karen at a table across from their newest client, his briefcase on the floor by their feet. “Due to a series of bad investments and poor money management, your company was on the verge of bankruptcy.”

He pauses, taking a sip of coffee and pulling a face at the taste. “You were desperate. You were halfway finished with construction on your biggest project to date, luxury condominiums in the Financial District.”

“Your buyers were already in for half a million each, and one of those buyers was Dino Gnucci,” Matt cuts in, disapproval dripping from his tone. He’s standing off to the side in the interview room, his hands clasped in front of him on top of his walking stick.

“In order to complete construction on this landmark building and keep your company, you needed more financing,” Foggy takes over again, laying out the facts of the case. “So you put on a ritzy gala at a hotel to lure in new investors. The following morning, you wake up with no memories of the night before and a dead woman in your bed.”

“If we’re lucky, they’ll charge you with second-degree manslaughter. It’s a Class C felony, three to fifteen years in prison,” Matt plainly states.

“But I didn’t kill her!” Adam Pincente explodes, face reddening with emotion. He looks disheveled with his slicked back hair sticking up haphazardly and borderline vulnerable in a white t-shirt instead of his usual power suit. “I didn’t—I couldn’t kill  _anyone._ Especially not a woman.”

He takes a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists before relaxing them flat onto the table in front of him. “I told you, I was feeling guilty at the prospect of potentially defrauding people out of millions. So I left early and went up to my hotel room—”

“Alone?” Foggy asks, interjecting.

“Yes.  _Alone._ I don’t know that poor woman they found next to me in bed. I’ve never met her before, I swear on my ma’s life.” Pincente’s eyes are bloodshot, but his stare is unwavering.

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Pincente. We believe you,” Matt remarks, unbuttoning his suit jacket and moving closer to the table where they’re sitting.

“We do?” Karen turns to face him, her legs crossed primly and a notepad and pen sitting on her lap.

“Yes,  _we do,_ ” Matt confirms her silent question. He knows their client is telling the truth because of his freakish Daredevil senses, because Matt can hear that his heart rate and respiratory rhythm are steady.

Karen nods, agreeing with his assessment. Maybe she was projecting her own past traumas involving Union Allied Construction and her guilt over Daniel Fisher’s death, but she trusted their client when he said he could never hurt a woman. He may be a scumbag and a swindler, but she didn’t believe that he was a killer.

“So what are we thinking here?” Foggy chimes in. “Dino Gnucci finds out M&P Developers might be going under, leaving he and his family in the lurch. So he decides to get revenge?”

“Yes, I think that’s exactly what happened,” Matt nods. “Besides, what’s a dead hooker to guys like Gnucci but a means to an end.”

“But why keep him alive? Why pin a murder on him instead of killing him?” Foggy wonders aloud, frowning slightly.

“Because the Gnuccis need the money. And if they kill me or Dave, they won’t get paid,” Pincente asserts, reminding them all that he’s still in the room.

He sighs, averting his eyes. “Look, the truth is, the Gnucci family didn’t put just half a million in one building. They were also a silent partner of sorts. Dave and I made a deal with them, when we were first starting out and in need of capital. They would get fifteen percent of our profits, and in return they’d help us secure favorable land to build on,” he admits.

“ _Secure_ ,” Matt barks out a caustic laugh, unmistakably angry. “Like move out of your house, or we’ll burn it down with you inside it.”

“I know, I know,” Pincente’s tone is pleading. “I’m a piece of shit, okay? But I’m not a killer.”

Matt nods, but there’s a tightness in his jaw. It matches the sudden tension in the interview room.

“Two weeks ago, Dino Gnucci showed up at my office announced,” Pincente continues on. “He demanded a timeline on when the condos would be finished. Told me the Punisher's been causing them problems, cutting off their revenue streams.”

(Karen pretends not to notice the look Foggy sends her way at the mention of Frank’s nocturnal activities.) She hopes Matt doesn’t pick up on the way her heart starts beating just a little bit faster in her chest, either.

There’s a knock on the door, and a uniformed cop sticks his head in. “Time’s up, you three. I’ve been given orders to take Mr. Pincente to booking.”

“What happens now?” Their client turns to them, panicked again. He stands up from the table so that the police officer can handcuff him.

“The courts are closed for the weekend,” Foggy answers in a reassuring tone, hoping to calm him. “They’ll hold you until Monday morning when you’ll be arraigned. The judge might demand you give up your passport, but you will be granted bail.”

Adam Pincente thanks them repeatedly and enthusiastically for taking his case, before he’s moved out the door and down the hallway by the officer.

“So,” Foggy starts, standing up and bending down to retrieve his briefcase from the floor. “We have less than forty-eight hours to come up with a _killer_ defense.” He cringes slightly at his own wording, it seems tasteless in light of the fact that they’re discussing a murder.

“I’ll check if there’s anything on the security cameras back at the hotel. But I’m betting they’ve already been scrubbed clean.” Karen tucks her notepad and pen back inside her purse, rising from the table.

“I’ll go out tonight,” Matt says, referring not to himself but his vigilante alter ego. “Ask around on the street. The Gnuccis don’t like getting their own hands dirty, if they can avoid it. Someone’s gotta know something.”

“I’m going to talk to the business partner too. David Murphy. I already ran background on him, I know where he’s going to be tonight. Maybe there’s something he’s hiding,” Karen adds, in full investigator mode.

“And I’m going to pay Blake Tower a visit. Get a feel for how strong their case is. Maybe I can convince him to drop the charges altogether,” Foggy details his own plan of action.

Matt looks skeptical about the idea of tough on crime Tower dumping what looks to be a slam dunk prosecution, but Foggy merely shrugs, grinning. “Hey, it’s worth a shot.”

He crushes the now-empty paper cup of coffee in his hand, tossing it at the trash can in the corner and cheering in celebration when it lands inside with a soft thunk. “Go, team!”

 

* * *

 

Just as she’d expected, the trip to Midtown Manhattan to check the security cameras at the hotel was a wasted one. The footage detailing the moment Adam Pincente returned back to his room and the hour that followed was missing. A  _technical glitch,_ the security guard on duty that night had called it. He was either incompetent or paid off, and Karen highly suspected it was the latter. Either way, he wasn’t talking; at least not to her.

Her conversation with their client’s business partner, David Murphy, was also a disappointment. After looking into his social media presence, she’d discovered that he had a habit of spending his Saturday nights at a handful of nightclubs around the city trolling for available women to hook-up with. Tonight, he was at some obnoxious place in Brooklyn. It had it all: a flood of pink, purple, and blue lights accenting the overall darkness of the club, pounding music so loud it made it difficult to hear yourself think, overpriced drinks served by scantily-clad wait staff, a dance floor filled to the brim with gyrating bodies, and private areas where the occupants could perform any manner of hedonism away from prying eyes. It’s in one of these corners that she finds him, drinking a vodka tonic and receiving a lap dance. 

“I already told the cops everything I know, alright?” David, or  _Dave_ as he likes to be called, tells her with clear irritation in his voice. He’s displeased with her for interrupting his planned night of debauchery with the mention of the possible imprisonment of his business partner for murder, it would seem.

“Don’t you care at all?” Karen asks him in disbelief at his disinterest in the topic. “You’ve known each other since college. Don’t you care that he might get fifteen years for a crime he didn’t commit?”

He shrugs off her outrage, throwing back a shot of tequila. “Look, shit’s been rocky between Adam and I for months now because of the stress of the potential bankruptcy. And it got heated at the gala. He came to tell me he was ducking out early, so I called him a coward and he threw a punch at me. We tussled a bit, and then he retreated upstairs to lick his wounds. That’s the last I saw of him that night, okay? That’s all I know.”

He sucks on a lime wedge, holding it in his mouth for a few seconds before spitting it into his shot glass. “Adam knew the rules of the game going in.  _All’s fair in love and war._ Right now, my only concern is getting that building finished and our investors paid. Or the Gnuccis will come for me next.”

Realizing that she’s been given all the information that was to be had from talking to David Murphy, she thanks him for his time and gets up to leave.

Due to the popularity of the club, there was a minimal amount of parking space available; leaving Karen to park her car a block away. Exiting into the street and the chilly night air, she wraps her arms around herself; cold in her outfit of short black dress and strappy heels.

She’s turned the corner, no longer in line of sight of the bouncers or those awaiting entrance when she gets the uneasy feeling that she’s being watched. There’s a tingling sensation, a sense that things are not quite right.

Karen was always vigilant, that was the sad reality of living life as a woman in a big city; but now she’s on high alert. She scans the dark corners untouched by the street lights, looking for any threats. Her fingers itch for her .380, but she had to leave it at home tonight because the club was a gun-free zone and walk-through metal detectors were a requirement for entry.

She’s reaching into her clutch to grab her pepper spray, when a figure steps out of the shadows and into her path. His body language isn’t particularly threatening, but he’s physically intimidating and there’s a bulge of a firearm on his left hip that’s noticeable under his suit jacket. Karen’s gearing up to pepper spray him and make a run for it, when a second man appears and joins the first.

A black, nondescript SUV pulls up from behind her then and idles near the curb. The back window rolls down an inch and an unknown voice calls out to where she’s standing on the sidewalk.

“Ms. Page, if you would be so kind to get in. I have a matter to discuss with you.”

She’s weighing the possibility of successfully making it to her car just a short distance away, but the two men move closer to box her in and it kills the mad dash idea stone-dead.

Karen sighs in resignation, opening the door and sliding into the back seat next to the man.

It’s Dino Gnucci.

She recognizes him from her research for a mob exposé she conducted at the Bulletin; from arrest photos, all charges mysteriously dropped, of course.

He’s in his fifties, the fitted gray suit he’s wearing matching his salt and pepper hair. He smiles widely at her as he signals his driver to drive on and the whiteness of his veneers gleam like the gold crucifix pendant he wears on a chain around his neck. It’s jarring, that juxtaposition. Seeing Christ’s visage displayed by such a wicked individual.

“I must say, you’re a very beautiful woman, Ms. Page.” 

She feels his eyes on her, a phantom caress on her body and it makes her wish she could crawl out of her skin.

“Though call me old-fashioned but I don’t understand why women these days dress this way,” he gestures at her clubbing attire, “like you could accessorize with a lamp post and a public defender.”

She laughs dryly, unamused. “Is that a polite way of saying I look like a prostitute?”

“But then again, you like your prostitutes better dead. Don’t you, Mr. Gnucci?” Karen snarls, the fear and discomfort she feels over her current predicament turning into a simmering anger in her gut.

“Ah, you’re referring to that lost soul that was found in Adam Pincente’s bed. Terrible business,” he shakes his head, acting aggrieved. “Couldn’t be helped, I fear.”

“You see, as second-in-command to my dear sister, Isabella, I’ve built up a certain reputation over the years. In the criminal underground, if you will,” he leans in towards her like he intends to tell her a secret and she fights the urge to shrink back and away from him. “And one thing I don’t abide is theft. M&P Developers tried to steal from me, from my family, and a price had to be paid.”

Gnucci leans back into his seat, and Karen finds she can breathe a little easier. His cologne is cloying, the scent of bergamot and patchouli overwhelming in the enclosed space. It’s as if he baptizes himself in Drakkar Noir to cleanse him of his sins, or to hide the smell of all the innocent blood on his hands at the very least.

“I was lenient, truly. I could’ve had him killed.”

The blasé way he speaks of murder makes her wonder just how many assassinations he’s ordered, how many bodies the Gnucci family’s empire was built upon.

“Maybe I’m biased when it comes to fellow Italians, eh?” He cracks a smile, displaying those perfect teeth again.

“Now Ms. Page, I must ask you a favor. I must ask that your firm _reconsider_ Adam Pincente as a client. Let Adamo take his punishment like a good Italian kid should.”

“And if we don’t?” Karen queries, hedging her bets. “If I say no, you’ll what? Dump my body off in a hotel room too?”

“Oh no,” Gnucci acts horrified at the suggestion. “This is a friendly conversation, Ms. Page. I merely instructed my driver to take a trip around the block so that we could chat.” He holds his right hand up as if to swear an oath, “I make you a promise on the Blessed Virgin that no harm will come to you tonight.”

That last word gives her pause. “And after _tonight?_ ”

His expression transforms, the mask of amiability slipping. His lips flatten into a line and his eyes harden.

“You know, I was reading the _New York Bulletin_  the other day and there was an interesting tidbit of information. You used to work there, did you not?”

He looks to her for confirmation, but she doesn’t give him any. Her face is blank, her body unmoving.

“Anyways, the article said that almost three thousand women go missing in New York City each year,” he clicks his tongue in disapproval. “I’d hate to see you become a statistic, Ms. Page.”

The threat has only been hanging in the air but a moment when a bullet comes through the window and everything goes to hell.


	4. Karen Page Is a BAMF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to give a shoutout to everyone for the kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, comments etc. Y’all are awesome. It’s been forever since I’ve written anything so all the positive feedback is giving me life. [Sally Field voice] “You like me! You really like me!” Thank you. <3

Karen had seen more than her fair share of death in her thirty-four years of living. Enough to know that it happened in many different ways.

Sometimes, it was slow and agonizing; dragging on year after painful year. Like her mother’s lost battle with cancer. It was a bitter irony that the chemo meant to cure her ended up taking away all the best parts. Her beauty, her strength, her passion for life...all gone. Until finally, _she_ was too.

Sometimes, it was sudden and unexpected; the person was there one moment and gone in the next. Like the car crash, when her brother was killed on impact.  _Kevin_. Still a boy, yet so desperate to be a man. And because of her selfish desire to get high, to escape reality for just a little while—he never would be. He’d live on in their memories, always trapped on the cusp of adulthood. Forever Peter Pan.

Dino Gnucci’s death is quick and more painless than he deserves.

It was a headshot.

The .30 caliber bullet entered his eye and exited out through the occipital bone.

He was killed instantly.

Karen closes her eyes at first, as a warm spray of blood hits her face. Upon opening them, she almost gags when she spots the gaping hole where his right eye used to be. His left is still open and fixated on her. But the dark brown is less menacing, now that the light’s been taken out of it.

She does retch when she catches sight of his brain splattered across the leather interior, the back of his skull missing. Bone shards, brain matter, and blood compose the most gruesome Jackson Pollock painting ever brought to life. Karen dry-heaves, lifting a hand to her mouth as her gaze shifts to the crimson stains on his crisp, white dress shirt. The image has a bizarrely calming effect on her as she’s reminded of winters in Vermont, of a red fox frolicking in freshly fallen snow.

The outside world comes rushing back in, once the initial shock of Gnucci’s death passes.

A second shot comes then, killing the driver. The man’s body slumps forward onto the steering wheel as the vehicle accelerates, his foot heavy on the gas pedal. It veers sharply to the left, crossing onto the other side of the street and jumping the curb. Karen is bounced around in the back with no seatbelt to tie her down, her teeth clanging together painfully. The SUV finally comes to a forced stop after taking out a chain link fence and smashing into the brick wall of an abandoned building.

Despite her best attempts to brace herself, she’s thrown forward from the force of the impact; hitting her face on the seat in front of her. Karen pulls away disoriented, fresh blood trickling from her nose. She wipes at it with the back of her hand as she reaches down to pick up her clutch from where it dropped onto the floor. She averts her eyes away from Dino Gnucci’s corpse, now sprawled in the space between the front seat and the rear seat. His body is bent in half with his limbs spread, thrown like a rag doll. She instead focuses on locating the door handle, and exits the vehicle on shaky legs.

Karen stumbles a few feet away from the SUV; taking note of the extensive front-end damage, the hood scrunched up like an accordion and the wheel bent. The engine is running and the lights are still on, but the tires are no longer spinning since the crash succeeded in dislodging the deceased driver’s foot from the gas pedal.

She jumps, startled as a brick knocked loose by the crash falls to the ground suddenly. But that’s nothing compared to the rapid gunfire that follows right after. 

Stepping carefully around the broken glass and miscellaneous debris lying on the ground, she crouches down by the vehicle’s bumper and tentatively looks out to spot _Frank._ He’s in full Punisher gear: dark shirt, jeans, and boots. His signature skull is displayed prominently on his bulletproof vest and he’s armed to the teeth. He’s standing in the middle of the street with an assault rifle engaging in a showdown with Gnucci’s goons.

There are two nondescript SUVs parked a short distance away from her with ten ( _no, make that nine_ , she thinks as Frank clips one in the shoulder) men hiding in groups behind them. Ever so often, they peek out with their weapons raised and take aim at Frank. The men must’ve been Dino Gnucci’s security detail, following along behind him and Karen in their matching vehicles. A ~~ten~~  nine-man entourage seems excessive for a mafioso as feared in the criminal underground as Gnucci, but clearly it’s small potatoes when a scout sniper with endless rage and nothing but time is after you.

Frank shoots one man in the thigh and kneecaps another, but takes three bullets to the chest in the process. Karen cringes, biting her lip in worry as he staggers backwards. She clutches at her own chest, phantom pain causing a squeezing sensation. But the discomfort is only temporary, the pressure fading to a feeling of indigestion when she sees Frank take shelter behind a parked car to reload.

Tired of sitting on the sidelines, of feeling useless, Karen sets her purse down on the concrete by her feet and rises from her squat by the bumper with purpose. She strides to the driver’s side door of the wrecked SUV; ignoring the sound of weapons being fired, of male voices calling out to each other and yelling profanities.

Karen wrenches the door open, the bent hinges requiring a hard tug. She holds her breath as best as she can, attempting to breathe through her mouth instead of her nose as the smell of blood and death hits her. Gritting her teeth, she searches the driver’s corpse for a weapon. Her fingers catch on a shoulder holster under his suit jacket with a Smith & Wesson Model 19 held in it. The revolver has a different feel to it than her pistol, but nevertheless it’s a comforting weight in her hand. It feels ghoulish, stealing from the  _dearly departed._ But if Karen’s ranking her sins, robbing a dead guy doesn’t even make the top five. Besides, one could argue pilfering an illegally owned gun from a mobster, slain or not, is morally ambiguous; even a Boy Scout like Matthew Murdock might agree.

She makes her way towards the back of the vehicle again, revolver in hand. Looking out, she observes Frank pull the pin on a frag grenade and toss it over at one of the SUVs Gnucci’s thugs are hiding behind. It skitters across the pavement, rolling along the asphalt before coming to a stop at the feet of four of the men. They are given just a moment, only a few seconds to come to grips with the fact that their deaths are imminent. Their eyes are wide in horrific realization, their lips forming expletives as the grenade explodes and they’re torn to pieces by metal fragments projected at high velocities. Karen ducks back behind the wreckage, setting her newly acquired gun aside to cover her ears with her hands at the loud explosion. But the shock wave is mostly absorbed by the SUV, the vehicle lifted up off the ground as it’s rocked.

A full minute passes before the sound of gunfire starts up again, this time accompanied by bellows of anger and groans of pain. Karen takes hold of the revolver again, releasing the cylinder and swinging it out to check for bullets. Each chamber has a cartridge, six rounds in total. Satisfied, she pushes the cylinder back up into place with a click. Wrapping her right hand around the handle, she places her left on top of her grip to give her more support.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she moves towards the standoff with Frank and the three remaining mobsters. She creeps forward slowly, gun held out in front of her body and index finger resting on the trigger guard.

Frank pops up from his own spot behind the parked car and zig-zags down the street carrying his assault rifle, movements fluid like a dancer. He can see her, now that she’s abandoned her hiding place and moved out into the open. But he doesn’t give any sign, any hint of notice at her appearance. His gaze is completely focused on his enemies, face tight with concentration.

One of the men seems to come to the realization that he’ll most likely be leaving this battle with the Punisher in a body bag anyways, so he might as well get it over with. Fueled by either an insane courage or just sheer desperation, he rushes out from behind the SUV; firing his MP5 submachine gun wildly. Karen recognizes him then, as one of the two men that approached her on the sidewalk when Dino Gnucci  _requested_ she take a ride with him. Frank clips him in the neck, and there’s a gurgling noise as he chokes on his own blood and falls to the ground. Crimson bubbles up to his lips, running out the corners of his mouth and dribbling down his chin as he dies.

Karen’s on top of the two men left standing now, managing to sneak up behind them as they’re distracted by Frank.

“Hands up! Drop your guns, or I’ll shoot,” she calls out to them, voice strong and unwavering. 

They both stiffen, turning slowly to face her with their weapons still held in their hands, albeit loosely.

“Drop your guns,” she repeats, revolver pointed in their direction.

The man on the right immediately throws in the towel, hands out in supplication as he slowly bends down to place his pistol on the ground before her. Karen kicks it away out of reach, almost stubbing her toes in her strappy heels in the process.

The man on the left, however, decides to try his luck. He acts as if he’s following the other guy’s lead, starting to stoop down before aiming his gun at her with the intent to fire.

Karen doesn’t blink, doesn’t hesitate; shooting him in the torso. He lets out a cry of pain, immediately dropping his weapon.

“Stupid bitch!” He yells out, teeth gritted and hatred in his eyes.

She ignores him, kicking away his handgun too. “Better put pressure on that.”

His hands go to the wound and he lets out a hiss as he presses down, blood leaking out between his fingers.

Immediate danger taken care of, Karen keeps her eyes and her revolver on the other man. But he doesn’t look like much of a threat at all, now that he’s been disarmed. He doesn’t look like much of a man, either. He’s young, college-aged and baby-faced. She takes in the obvious fear in his face, wondering what choices he made in his past to get him to this point.

Frank appears beside her then; breathing hard, sweaty, and covered in grime. He goes to lift his rifle in the direction of the guy she’s been holding at gunpoint, but she stops him with a hand on his forearm.

“Wait. Frank, don’t.” 

She thinks of all the bodies of Gnucci’s goons scattered around them. They were criminals who had done terrible things. And maybe some of them needed to die, in order to make the city safer. But they still had lives, people that loved them.

“Let him go,” she says with a slight plea. There was a chance this kid playing  _Godfather_ might be able to get out, to correct his mistakes and change his life for the better.

Frank looks like he wants to argue. But he must see the steel in her expression because he lets out a sigh, defeated.

“Go,” he orders in a gruff voice. “Get out of town. If I see your face again, I’ll kill you.”

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, the guy scrambles to his feet. He nearly skips down the street, overcome with relief at being spared by the Punisher.

Frank’s eyes track him until he’s turned the corner out of sight. All enemies vanquished, he drops his gun down by his side and focuses his attention on her.

“Karen!” He barks out her name, exasperated. “Why didn’t you stay by the wreck? I was coming to get you after I finished with these assholes,” he states, kicking the shoe of a slain Gnucci lackey down by his feet.

She shrugs, tucking a tendril of hair back behind her ear. “I got tired of playing damsel.”

“What were you even doing there tonight, at that club?” He questions her, frustration coloring his tone. “And where the hell’s Murdock?” She doesn’t miss the way his voice changes when he says Matt’s surname.

“My job, Frank.” She’s borderline snippy, irritated by the impromptu interrogation. “And Matt’s not my keeper.”

Karen blows out a breath, sighing. “Look, we got a new client. He’s being framed for murder after pissing off the Gnuccis. I went to the club to interview a possible witness and I guess Dino had me followed there.”

Frank moves in on her now, running his hands down her shoulders and across her body to check for any injuries. He sweeps a hand along her cheek, pushing her hair back from her face gently. His eyes go wide when he notices the blood splatters, but she shakes her head and puts her own hand up to grab his wrist. “It’s not mine. Well, most of it,” she cracks a smile but he looks unamused. 

“I’m fine. Just a little banged up from the crash. Gonna be sore tomorrow.”

He huffs, all the hard lines of his face going soft as he strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. “You’re a grade-A shit magnet, ya know that?”

“Pot, meet kettle,” she shoots back at him with a grin.

Frank chuckles, staring into her eyes with a tender expression for a moment before pulling away.

“Come on, I’ll drive you back to your car,” he tells her, slinging his assault rifle over his shoulder.

“Okay. I just have to get my purse real quick,” she replies, offering him her own stolen weapon. He accepts the revolver, tucking it into an empty holster on his hip.

“What about him?” She asks, gesturing to the mobster she shot. He’s still alive, sprawled out on the pavement a few feet away from where they’re standing. He’s glaring at them, fingers still pressed to his wound.

“The cops can have him.”

As if on cue, the sound of distant sirens fill the air. Karen nods, striding back towards the wrecked SUV with Frank following along behind her. She stoops down to retrieve her clutch from where she left it on the concrete, and then looks to him for guidance.

His arm rests lightly against her back as he directs her to the location of his ride. It’s a black pickup, parked the next block over. He opens the passenger door for her, gentlemanly as always.

She gets in the truck as gracefully as she can in her dress and heels, “and they say chivalry is dead.”

The corners of his mouth turn up into a smile at that, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there before as he walks around the truck to get into the driver’s seat.

The short drive over to where her car is parked is spent mostly in silence. There’s a tension in the enclosed space that can be seen in the nervous fingers Frank taps on the steering wheel.

Finally, she turns to him with a look of determination on her face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He lets out a breath, hands gripping the steering wheel before he relaxes them again. He looks out the window briefly, then meets her gaze. “I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if I hadn’t been there on that rooftop tonight.”

“You see, Frank? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she looks deep into his eyes, expression tired but sweet with affection.

“You think being with you will get me hurt. But I do a good enough job of that on my own.”

He seems troubled by that statement, brows drawn together and lips twisted into a frown. “Karen, did something happen while I was gone?” 

“I—it’s nothing,” she gives him a reassuring smile. “It’s over now. Don’t worry about it.”

Frank looks like he wants to say more, like he’s not finished with the conversation. But the pickup truck is pulled up next to her car now, so Karen takes her purse in hand and reaches for the door handle.

She hesitates, biting her lip in indecision. Giving in to the impulse, she slides over to gently kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers the words into his skin.

Before he has a chance to respond, Karen pushes the door open and exits the truck. She takes out her car keys from her clutch, getting in the driver’s seat. Grabbing her phone, she sends a quick text off to Foggy.

_Bring Matt and meet me at the police station. Don’t freak out. I’ll explain when you get there._

Message sent, she scrolls through her contacts until she finds the one for Brett Mahoney. She hits the call button, clicking her seatbelt into place and pulling out of the parking lot.

She has that feeling again during the drive to the police station. That feeling of being watched. But it’s not like it was when she left the club earlier that night. This time it’s warm, comforting. It’s as if she has a silent guardian, a watchful protector...a personal  _Punisher._


	5. No More Miss Moneypenny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter. Look at me, I’m on a roll :) And we have officially reached the halfway point now, y’all. Hooray! 
> 
> P.S. If you haven’t seen any of the James Bond films, you might be a little lost this chapter. I was too excited by the Bond 25 news when I wrote this, sorry.

“So as a result of the crash, you temporarily lost consciousness and did not witness the assailant or assailants attack Mr. Gnucci’s associates?”

“Yes,” Karen says, nodding in affirmation. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, the skin of her face and neck a soft pink after scrubbing Dino Gnucci’s blood off in the police station’s bathroom. She’s wearing a borrowed NYPD t-shirt and sweatpants; sitting at a table across from Sergeant Mahoney in an interview room at the 15th Precinct, with Foggy and Matt standing behind him. The situation is so familiar to the time she first met all three men, after being arrested on suspicion of Daniel Fisher’s murder, that she almost cracks a smile; the sense of déjà vu strong.

“All I remember is the bullet coming through the window—”

“The bullet that killed Mr. Gnucci?” Mahoney cuts in.

“Yes. And then the second bullet came, killing the driver. Which caused the SUV to lose control and crash,” she continues on with her story. “I must’ve hit my head on something, because I was knocked out.”

“And then?” He prompts, eyebrows raised.

“And then I woke up. Saw I was surrounded by dead guys. Called you. Drove here. And the rest is history,” she smiles at him. But Mahoney is not having it, he’s all business.

“Thank you, Ms. Page. That will conclude your statement.”

Mahoney switches off the recording device sitting on the table in front of him, and gives her a deadpan look.

“Cut the bullshit, Karen. I’m not buying the Sleeping Beauty routine,” he leans forward and lowers his voice. “It was Castle, wasn’t it?”

Foggy clears his throat and rushes forward, briefcase in hand. “As Ms. Page’s lawyer, I would advise her against answering that.”

“Relax Foggy, we’re off the record,” Mahoney rolls his eyes, waving him off. “Besides, as far as the department is concerned...Ms. Page is the victim here, not the suspect.”

He blows out a breath. “Believe me, I won’t be losing any sleep tonight over the fact that Dino Gnucci is no longer with us.”

Mahoney settles back into his chair, crossing his arms across his chest loosely. “But call me old-fashioned, but I still believe murder is wrong. And that we as a society cannot have vigilantes running around playing God.”

He rubs at his temple for a moment, fighting off a tension headache. “Which is why the NYPD will be reporting that what happened tonight was intermob warfare, a result of a bloody power struggle for control of the Italian-American Mafia.”

“But Karen, I still need to know,” Mahoney leans forward, propping his elbows up on the table in front of him before meeting her gaze. “It was Frank Castle that killed Gnucci and his men, wasn’t it?”

Seconds tick away, the atmosphere in the interview room growing thick with anticipation. Before, finally, Karen nods. “Yes, it was Frank.”

She looks to Matt first, to see his reaction. He doesn’t seem surprised by the news, merely disappointed as he stands in the corner with his walking stick clenched between his fingers. His lips are pulled down into a frown, a physical manifestation of his strong disapproval with the Punisher’s judge, jury, and executioner approach to fighting crime. Foggy’s expression, on the other hand, is altogether heartbreaking. His eyes are soft and full of concern for her. But it’s the sad, almost pitying look he gives her that makes her turn away from him; a sudden tightness appearing in her throat that makes it hard to swallow.

Mahoney thanks her for confirming his suspicions and pushes back from the table, his chair scraping against the floor as he stands. “Well, you’re free to go now,” he tells her, left hand resting lightly on his hip while the right adjusts his tie. “Just try to stay out of trouble, please? That goes for all three of you,” he says, looking around the room at them.

“Well you know me, Brett. Trouble’s my middle name,” Foggy jokes with a boyish grin.

Mahoney scoffs in response, retrieving the recording device from the table. He’s opening the door to leave the room when Foggy calls out to him. “Hey, you’re coming to Marci and I’s engagement party, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Mahoney answers him, the corners of his mouth curving upwards into a smile. With a nod to Karen and Matt, he disappears out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

There’s quiet for a moment after the door clicks shut behind Mahoney. Before Foggy chirps up, breaking the silence.

“So, the good news is that Blake Tower will be forced to release our client...if you agree to be deposed, Karen,” he looks to her.

She stands up from the table. “Of course, whatever it takes.”

Matt moves forward then, looking guilty and somewhat chagrined. “Karen, I’m sorry I wasn’t there tonight. I should’ve been.”

She sighs. “Matt, I thought we were done with the Atlas impression.”

“The Atlas, what?” He asks, brows raised in question.

“You know, the Titan forced by Zeus to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Karen clarifies as she pushes her chair back in under the table.

“Ah that’s a common misconception, actually. Atlas was forced to carry the sky, not the Earth,” Matt replies, correcting her.

Foggy groans loudly. “God, that’s so annoying. No wonder you’re having bad luck with the ladies. Nobody likes a know-it-all, Matt.”

“You buy an engagement ring _once_ and suddenly you’re an expert on women. Remember when you took Punjabi in college just to chase a girl?” Matt teases him with a smirk.

“Hey, Punjabi is the language of the future! And that girl was hot,” Foggy defends himself, choking the words out on a laugh.

They continue squabbling over trivial nonsense, bantering back and forth. Karen finds herself content to sit back and enjoy the show. Soon, she’ll leave the police station and return home to her apartment. Where it will probably hit her that she witnessed multiple deaths tonight, and almost died herself. But right now, she’s with her boys. And apart from Frank, there’s no one else she’d rather be with.

 

* * *

 

It’s half past seven on a Friday night—and Karen is at home in her apartment, alone. Well, not completely alone. She has a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon to keep her company, along with the work she brought home from the office.

It was a short workday today. Matt had left early for a planned dinner with his mother; and a flustered Foggy vamoosed not long after, after receiving a call from Marci reminding him that he was her date for some bar association event that evening.

They’d both been worrying over her like mother hens the whole week long. Or at least Foggy had. Bringing her coffee each morning, asking her if she wanted to go get lunch in the afternoons, and constantly popping his head into her office throughout the day to see how she was doing. A stoic Matt mostly stood around brooding and occasionally frowning at her.

It had been six days since her ride with Dino Gnucci ended as most things involving the Punisher do, in blood and bullets. 

Karen, Matt, and Foggy had spent almost four hours at the 15th Precinct that Saturday night. 

Their client was released three days later. Blake Tower’s office dropped all charges against Adam Pincente after Karen agreed to give sworn testimony detailing what happened. That before his death, Gnucci had confessed to framing their client for murder due to business conflicts.

Karen sighs audibly for the fifth time in the past hour, catching her mind drifting away from the research she’s doing into a plaintiff’s financials. She rubs at the back of her neck as she closes the lid to her laptop. The soreness from the wreck is mostly gone, but there’s still a lingering tension in her muscles. Draining the last of her wine, she sets the empty glass aside and gets up from her seat at the dining room table, deciding a hot bath is in order.

She makes her way towards the bathroom, running the hot water and letting the tub fill while she strips off her clothes. Karen squeezes some bubble bath into the water, before twisting her hair and clipping it up. Tub full, she turns off the tap and sinks into the bath. The hot water envelopes her body in a comforting hug and the bubbles tickle her neck as she slides down deeper into the water, resting her head on the back of the acrylic tub.

Ten minutes pass and she’s starting to drift off, being lulled to sleep by the relaxing scent of lavender and chamomile, when a knock on her front door jolts her to alertness. She goes still at the sound, heart pounding wildly in her chest in unease. She’s not expecting anyone tonight—and it’s an unfortunate fact that upon hearing someone at her door these days, her first instinct is to arm herself. Karen rises into a crouch and grips the sides of the tub, waiting. The knocking comes again, louder this time.

Moving from the bathtub as quietly as possible, she hurriedly towels off before grabbing her robe hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door and slipping into it. She then sneaks into her bedroom to retrieve her .380 off the nightstand. Pistol in hand, Karen slinks toward the apartment door. Holding her breath, she peeks through the peephole and sees... _Frank._

Her tense muscles instantly relax, and she flicks the safety back on her .380 before lowering it to her side. She unlocks the deadbolt, and opens the door.

Frank is standing there, wearing a baseball cap and holding a pizza box.

His eyes go wide when he sees her. “Shit, did I just walk into a James Bond movie?”

She’s confused at the reference, before she looks down at herself.

Signs she had just gotten out of the bath, including damp wisps of hair sticking to the back of her neck and bubbles still clinging to her calves.

Gray silk robe.

Loaded gun in hand.

_Oh_.

She looks like the quintessential Bond girl.

“Yeah, just call me Pussy Galore.”

Frank chokes on his tongue.

He coughs, turning red for a moment. It’s endearing, but she’s unable to fully appreciate the sight. She’s too caught up in her own depressing thoughts. Because the sad truth was if Karen Page could be compared to any female James Bond character, she’d be Miss Moneypenny. 

Completely dedicated to her work.

Almost nonexistent social life.

Sexual tension between her and Bond that’s never consummated.

_Yep_. If Frank were Bond, she’d be his Miss Moneypenny.

Karen steps back from the doorway, giving silent permission for him to enter. He shuffles past her into the apartment, and she locks the door behind him.

Leaving the entryway, she breezes past where he stands in the living room and places her pistol on a side table.

“What are you doing here, Frank?” Karen asks in a neutral tone. She crosses her arms across her chest, feeling somewhat vulnerable standing before him in her robe with nothing underneath but bare skin.

“Brought dinner,” he announces, holding up the pizza box in his hands. “It’s Lombardi’s.”

“Why?” She questions him, ignoring the smell of cooked meat, melted cheese, and baked dough that’s making her mouth water.

“Well, I already brought you flowers. Thought I’d try food this time,” he jokes, his lips pulling up into a small smile.

“Uh-huh,” Karen says, dragging the word out. She’s apprehensive, she’s not buying the pizza delivery boy act. There must be some other reason for why he’d shown up on her doorstep tonight. She knows intrinsically that she could send him out of her apartment right now, and Frank would go without a fight. But she ~~wouldn’t~~  couldn’t. She loves him too much—yearns to be around him when they’re not facing imminent death or immediate danger...her being shot at, or him being tied down to a hospital bed.

So she picks up her gun, and walks to her bedroom. “Plates are in the cupboard and beer is in the fridge,” she calls out behind her.

Karen returns her .380 back to its nocturnal resting place on her nightstand before changing her clothes. She’s left her bedroom door open a crack, and she fights a smile when she hears Frank banging around in the kitchen.

Entering the living room now wearing a pair of comfy lounge pants and a cotton tank top, with a soft cardigan thrown over her shoulders; she stops short. 

Frank is sitting on the couch waiting for her, his baseball cap and jacket discarded. There’s two opened beer bottles sitting on coasters on the table in front of the couch. The pizza box is left open on the kitchen counter, but he’s holding a plate of pizza in each hand. The sight is so domestic that it makes her ache. Makes her want things she knows she’ll probably never have, at least not with him.

“I didn’t know what toppings you liked, so I got all of 'em,” he comments as she sits down next to him on the couch. He hands her a plate with two pieces of deluxe pizza.

“This is great, thank you,” she tells him with a grateful smile.

Frank watches her as she picks the black olives off with her fingers, placing them on the side of her plate. “Huh, so Karen Page doesn’t like olives. Learn something new everyday.” He bites off the end of a pizza slice, taking a pull on his beer to wash it down.

There’s a moment of companionable silence between the pair as they eat their dinner, chewing mouthfuls of pizza and drinking swigs of beer. Before Karen breaks it.

“Did you learn something else about me? Is that why you’re here?” She probes, in between bites of her pizza.

“Yes.” He wipes at his mouth with a napkin, setting his plate down on the table in front of him. “I found out what happened when I was gone. With _Fisk_.” His body language changes, his back going ramrod straight. “I would’ve killed him, Karen. If I’d been in the city, I would’ve put that shitbag in the ground where he belongs.”

She swallows, taking note of his clenched jaw and the napkin he’s crushing in a fist. “So you heard that he duped the FBI and got released from prison?” Karen asks, putting her plate of half-eaten pizza next to his on the table. She wipes her hands with her napkin, then looks to him.

Frank nods, adding, “and that the piece of shit sicced that fake Daredevil on you.”

Karen’s body goes cold at that, at the memories of Benjamin Poindexter. Her vision blurs as she remembers the numerous employees at the Bulletin that were slain, and Father Lantom’s Christlike sacrifice on her behalf at the church.

She blinks back the flood of tears, her wet eyes meeting Frank’s dry ones. “Do you know why Wilson Fisk came after me?”

He shakes his head no, face soft with concern for her.

“I killed his right-hand man,” she looks to Frank for a reaction but his expression remains neutral. “His name was James Wesley. Fisk loved him like a son,” she goes on, fighting through a sudden tightness in her throat. “This happened almost four years ago, before we met. I dug too deep, stumbled upon one of Fisk’s secrets. His toady found out, and kidnapped me. Took me to some dump and threatened me. Said he kill Foggy and Matt. Everyone I’d ever cared about,” she pauses to take a breath before continuing on with her story. “But he made a huge mistake. He left a loaded gun on the table. I don’t know why he did it. Ego, I guess. Maybe he underestimated me, thinking I was just some scared little blonde. Either way, I picked up the gun and once I started shooting, I didn’t stop. Until he was dead.”

“Good,” Frank chimes in, his gruff voice so confident that it allows little room for argument.

“I shot him _seven_ times, Frank. Until the clip ran out.”

“Karen,” he says, reaching for her. Their fingers tangle together, his hand holding hers in a firm but affectionate grasp. “You did what you had to do. You _survived_.”

Karen wants to say that they’re birds of a feather, that death and violence have followed her like a shadow since before she left Vermont. She wants to tell him about her mother, about Kevin; how she understands his grief in some way because she had lost her family too.

Karen longs to disclose her guilt over all the people that were killed because she tried to do the right thing—Daniel Fisher, Ben Urich, Father Lantom, and her former colleagues at the Bulletin. Longs to admit that part of the reason she fought so hard to redeem him when they first met was because she was also trying to redeem herself.

She’s mustering up the courage to do just that, the words building up inside her and threatening to burst out, when Frank’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls the phone out with his left hand, the right one still holding hers. His thumb strokes the back of her hand as he reads the screen, before he looks to her with apologetic eyes.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go,” he releases her hand, tone regretful.

“Does this have anything to do with Eddie Gnucci being found dead two days ago?” Karen questions him. Eddie was Dino Gnucci’s nephew, one of Isabella’s three sons. His bullet-riddled body was discovered in a warehouse in Queens on Wednesday.

His eyes go hard, his demeanor turning brittle. “He was a drug dealer. Used to get his kicks ODing business rivals, watching them choke to death on their own blood.”

Karen shivers at the mental image. She won’t be shedding any tears over Eddie Gnucci’s passing, that’s for certain. “So, who’s the Punisher going after tonight?”

Frank huffs at her use of his vigilante moniker. “Bobbie Gnucci, the middle son. Likes to date rape women as a hobby.”

“He should try couponing,” she remarks, pushing past her revulsion in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Frank fights a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching, so she considers it a success. He stands up from the couch, shrugging into his jacket and pulling his baseball cap down low to hide his face.

Karen pops up from her own spot on the couch, following him to her front door. He pauses in the entryway and she stops too, averting her eyes as she fiddles with her cardigan. Frank leans over, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. It’s a sweet gesture, but it also feels sort of pitying. Like a parent kissing a child’s boo-boo to get them to stop crying.

“I’m tired of being Miss Moneypenny.”

“What?” He’s confused, eyebrows scrunched together. 

“Earlier,” she clarifies. “You joked that I looked like a Bond girl.”

She lets out a breath, looking deep into his eyes. “But I’m not a Bond girl, Frank. I’m Miss Moneypenny. _And I’m sick of it_.”

“Karen—” he falters, voice dropping off. He clears his throat, starting again. “The thing about Bond girls is, they usually die.”

“Well, not until they’ve had sex with James Bond,” she points out, a smile teasing her lips.

“And you think that’s worth dying for?” He asks, his mouth quirked.

“It depends...”

“On?” Frank prompts.

“On how good the sex is,” she says, grinning at him.

Frank chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. He smiles at her, and it’s heartbreakingly tender.

“Take care of yourself, Karen,” he tells her, opening the door and slipping out into the hallway. Within the hour, he’ll be donning his white skull and his arsenal of weapons; going out into the night to hunt down the next Gnucci on his list.

Karen locks her apartment door behind him, resting her forehead on it a moment to breathe.

She finds herself growing weary with this dance of theirs.

It feels a lot like playing a game that you can never win, and she’s getting tired of losing.

Karen sighs, padding across the living room and wandering into the kitchen.

She won’t be having sex tonight with James Bond...or  _Frank Castle_ , for that matter.

But Karen has the next best thing: pizza. So she grabs a slice, biting off the end and debating her next move as she chews. She should draw herself another bath. And finish her pizza. Maybe she’d eat pizza in the bathtub? She’s never done that before, and the thought is enticing.

_Miss Moneypenny, eat your heart out_.


	6. Illegal in 48 States Kind of Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is my favorite chapter I’ve written so far, mainly because I had a lot of fun writing it. (drunk!Karen is the absolute best.) Drop me a comment and let me know if you enjoy reading it too. Thank you! x

“...and to Marci, the woman who made my best friend happy in a way I never could,” he says, earning a big laugh from the crowd.

Karen stands a few feet away with champagne in hand, watching Matt put her earlier toast to shame.

She’s wearing an off the shoulder, mid-length red dress with a slit up the side that exposes the pale skin on her left thigh when she moves. Her hair is in an elaborate updo, and she’d taken extra time with her makeup. When Foggy had seen her walk into the business dinner turned engagement party earlier, he wolf whistled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses in honor of the couple of the hour, Foggy Nelson and Marci Stahl.”

Flutes of champagne are tipped back, and applause breaks out across the room. The newly engaged couple are stood together smiling, Marci looking gorgeous as always in a shimmering, silver gown and Foggy beaming in his black tie.

_Damn that Matthew Murdock,_ she thinks. His toast was amazing. It was charming and thoughtful, the perfect combination of funny and emotional. Sometimes she wonders if God blinded him out of jealousy, just to give him an imperfection. But of course, Matt being  _Matt_ took what could’ve been a disability and made it into a strength. Transformed what could’ve been a curse into a blessing.

And now he’s turning a successful toast into an opportunity to get better acquainted with all the lonely, single women in the room, it would seem.

To his credit, he looks greatly flummoxed by all the fawning female attention he’s receiving. There’s a statuesque blonde attempting to hold him in conversation, while a curvy brunette plies him with alcohol. Meanwhile, a feisty redhead and whimsical black-haired chick are playing a flirty game of keep away with his walking stick.

“Have you seen Matt over there?” Foggy asks, sidling up to her. “He’s like a Snickers bar at a fat camp.”

Karen laughs loudly at that, letting out an unladylike snort that makes her blush and hide her face with her champagne glass.

He sighs dramatically. “It’s college all over again.”

Her eyebrows raise in silent question, and Foggy elaborates.

“He was the devastatingly handsome blind guy that got all the ladies, and I was the dorky best friend that orbited him.”

“Hey,” comes an indignant voice. Marci appears at his left shoulder, swatting her fiancé on the chest playfully. “There's only one lady in your life you need to worry about from now on, Foggy Bear.”

“And besides,” she says, throwing her arms around his neck with a grin. “If you need to orbit anyone, orbit me. I’ll be your sun.”

“Oh baby,” Foggy croons, moving in close and wrapping her up in his arms. “You are my sun. And my moon. And my stars.”

_Gag me with a spoon_ , Karen thinks. But her disgust at their unbearable cuteness is only half-hearted. She couldn’t be more thrilled for her friends, truly. Foggy Nelson was one of the best people she had ever know, a bright spot in the muck of the city; if anyone deserved happily ever after, it was him. But all their engagement bliss was making her feel alone. Alone and  _thirsty._

“Well I’m going to leave you two lovebirds to it and go visit the real VIPs of this party, the bar staff," she jokes, aiming to excuse herself.

But Marci turns to her, eyes sparkling almost as much as the new piece of jewelry on the ring finger of her left hand. “Wait, Karen. Don’t run off.”

She breaks away from Foggy and reaches out to grab Karen’s arm, to keep her there. “There’s someone I want you to meet. A very _attractive,_ very _accomplished,_ very _available_ someone.”

She tilts her head in the direction of an unknown man a short distance away currently engaged in conversation with Jeri Hogarth.

Karen opens her mouth to protest the set-up, but Marci, ever the lawyer, has an argument already prepared and ready to go.

“Come on, Karen. When is the last time you went on a date? It was Matt, wasn’t it? Like almost _two years_ ago? That’s  _criminal_. You’re way too hot a commodity to be this single.”

Karen mulls it over, biting her lip. Marci can see that she’s almost got her, and goes in for the kill.

“You don’t have to marry the guy. Just talk to him. See how it goes. And if you hit it off, take him home and get laid. Don’t be just another passenger on the S.S. Ain’t Getting Any.”

Karen slyly evaluates the possible suitor from where she stands. Well, he’s certainly tall, dark, and handsome. And it had been an embarrassingly long time since she’d been with a man, since she’d shared her bed with anyone other than herself and her fantasies.

“So, whaddya say?”

Karen envisions her mother, taking a trip to the corner store every week to buy scratch-offs. Spending money they didn’t have to spare on the possibility of  _maybe this time, I’ll win_. There was a reason some people snidely referred to the lottery as “the stupid tax.” Is that what she was doing, loving Frank? Paying the stupid tax?

It wasn’t as if she was just sitting at home pining away for him. Plucking petals off daisies reciting he loves me, he loves me not. But she also hadn’t really given herself a chance to move on.

Maybe tonight she should.

“The S.S. Ain’t Getting Any, you say?” Karen dithers, faking hesitation while Marci awaits her decision with bated breath.

“Well, man overboard!” She calls out, laughing as Marci squeals in delight and crushes her in a hug.

 

* * *

 

Eric is his name.

He’s a second-year associate at Hogarth’s firm. He’s a Hoosier, born in a suburb just outside Indianapolis. His parents are high school sweethearts, and he has an older brother who’s a neurosurgical resident in Seattle that he’s immensely proud of. He owns a dog, a Siberian Husky that he recently adopted from a rescue shelter. In his free time, he volunteers for a nonprofit legal assistance organization as a public defender in bond court.

Basically, he’s perfect. The ideal candidate for _The Bachelor_ or some other cheesy dating show.

And when he smiles at her, flashing those brilliant white teeth and emphasizing that adorably dimpled chin, it’s enough. It’s not the all-consuming fire she feels for Frank, but it’s a spark. A spark that could grow into a flame, maybe.

They talk for over an hour straight after Marci introduces them. And when the party comes to an end, and he asks her if she’d like to go someplace to get a nightcap, she doesn’t hesitate. She tells him that she’s got a snifter of cognac with his name on it back at her place, if he’s interested.

As soon as they cross the threshold into her apartment, she’s kissing him. He seems surprised at first, going still for a moment before kissing her back. He more than matches her ardor, pushing her against the bookcase off the entryway and moving his body in close to hers. Her mind betrays her by noting that he’s tall, much taller than Frank. She and Frank were almost the same height when barefoot, but Eric dwarfs her even in heels. Shoving the thought away, she takes him by the hand and leads him down the hall to her bedroom.

Karen wants to feel good, to feel desired. It’s been so long since she’d been with a man. Her last date was with Matt, and they never even slept together. She deserves to be wanted back. She deserves someone who  _stays._

Eric tosses aside his suit jacket, then lowers her down onto the mattress. He presses her back into the pillows—trailing kisses from her mouth, across her jaw, and down to her neck.

When he leans away briefly to yank at his bow tie, tugging his dress shirt from his pants; she looks up at him. He’s classically handsome, in an Old Hollywood way. He’s Clark Gable, Cary Grant, and Laurence Olivier all rolled into one, but her heart belongs to a man that’s attractive in a nontraditional way. Frank’s a brute, a brawler, and Eric is just too pretty. His ears are too small. His nose is too straight.

He unbuttons his shirt, and it hangs open. The naked skin underneath is perfect, free from imperfections. Karen imagines a different man from the one on the bed with her, a torso that’s marred by scars from bullet wounds and knife cuts. Skin that’s usually covered in bruising and dripping in blood. 

Eric runs his hands down her sides, fingers fumbling for the zipper on her dress. His hands are smooth, palms missing the calluses caused by gripping a gun and knuckles free from scabs brought on by hand-to-hand combat. 

He’s shirtless now, urging her to sit up so that he can remove her dress. 

“Wait,” she says, pushing Eric away. It would be unfair for him and for herself, to let this continue. She’s too disconnected from the moment, too caught up in her feelings for Frank. “I can’t do this, I’m sorry.”

He’s confused by the change, her sudden lack of interest. But nevertheless, he goes without a fight. He’s a good man, a great man even, but her heart belongs to another. She tells him that, once he’s dressed again.

“He’s a lucky guy, whoever he is,” Eric comments as he leaves her apartment. She locks the door behind him, wishing not for the first time that things were different.

That she hadn’t given her heart away to Frank Castle.

But the damage was done. There was no turning back now. She’d been his since the hotel elevator, or maybe even earlier...since he saved her from the Blacksmith’s hired guns by shielding her with his body. If she’s honest about it, she’d been a goner since that very first hospital visit. Since she crossed that red line of tape on the floor.

Karen thinks of her late mother again—of how when she was receiving her chemotherapy treatments, she’d take her mind off it by watching her favorite movie,  _Steel Magnolias._ There’s a line in there, from Julia Roberts’s character: “I’d rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” 

Frank hadn’t ruined her for all men. He’d ruined her for Eric, probably. But there’d be others. She could be with somebody else, eventually. Once enough time and distance had passed. And it would be nice enough. She could make a real go of it, and be content. But it would be a lifetime of nothing special, and she doesn’t want that.

She sighs, feeling lovesick and sexually frustrated. She’s going to get drunk, she decides. She wants to drown her sorrows away. Plan made, she zips her dress back up and makes her way to the kitchen; intent on finding the aforementioned cognac.

 

* * *

 

Karen’s sprawled out on the couch, her legs crossed at the ankles and her feet propped up on the coffee table. A bottle of brandy that was a Christmas gift from Ellison last year is resting on her lap, she’d long since given up on drinking out of a glass like a civilized person.

She’s past tipsy and is currently rounding the bases on buzzed and intoxicated. Karen’s debating whether or not she should go for a home run and get wasted tonight, when she’s interrupted by a soft tapping noise.

She whips her head to the right at the sound, feeling dizzy for a moment from the quick movement.

It’s coming from the window leading to her fire escape.

She assumes it’s one of the neighborhood alley cats, but the shadow cast against the curtains features a silhouette that is decidedly human and male. Karen staggers up from the couch, sobering slightly as her body goes cold. She considers her pistol, but she doesn’t trust her aim right now. Plus, alcohol and firearms sounds like a deadly combination, and not for the possible assailant.

She reaches trembling fingers out to pull the curtain aside, her other hand holding the bottle of brandy in a death grip. She’s ready to use the bottle as a weapon, preparing to hoist it up and bring it down forcefully over the man’s head.

But the curtains part to reveal... _Frank_.

It’s been a week since Karen had seen him last, since he showed up on her doorstep with a pizza box and knowledge about what went down with Fisk.

She stumbles away from the window in relief that it’s him and not an ill-intentioned individual, fingers going slack around the brandy. She has enough sense in her semi-drunken stupor to bend down and place the glass bottle on the floor, before fumbling with the window locks. She flips the sash locks open, pushing the window up and moving back to allow him room to enter her apartment.

He’s cautious coming over the windowsill, moving with an uncharacteristic slowness, but Karen’s too inebriated to notice.

“Hey,” he says in that gruff voice, smiling weakly at her.

Suddenly, she’s furious. He was the one who asked her to walk away, and yet he seems incapable of doing the same.

“I was going to have sex tonight,” she blurts out, cheeks reddened from the alcohol and from embarrassment. But nevertheless, she trudges on, fueled by liquid courage.

“And it was going to be hot. Six-alarm fire hot, Frank.”

His eyebrows raise at that, at her bold proclamation.

“I’m talking steamy, bodies dripping with sweat, neighbors pounding on the wall, _illegal in 48 states_ kind of sex!”

He looks taken aback and shocked speechless. She feels a thrill go through her at the thought. Frank was always so controlled. He conducted all his affairs with such military-grade precision, the idea of getting in there and messing all that up is intoxicating. The effect her words are having on him makes her feel powerful, makes her brave...so she continues.

“But I couldn’t go through with it. Because he wasn’t you, Frank.” Her voice goes quiet, all the righteous anger she started with having been drained from her. Her eyes are averted, cast downward. “He wasn’t you,” she repeats, just above a whisper.

Karen looks up, really looking at him for the first time since he’d come through her window. It’s then that she finally notices the way he’s clutching at his side, the blood that’s slowly soaking his jeans and dripping down to pool into her living room carpet.

She sucks in a breath, eyes going wide with alarm.

“Karen, I—” he starts, voice tight with pain. Before he collapses, pitching forward as he passes out.

She rushes to catch him, the sudden weight of him shocking her. She sinks down to the floor with him, cradling him with her body as best as she can.

“Frank! Frank!” She calls out, breath hitched in panic. 

But there’s no answer, for he’s well and truly unconscious. The only sound she _can_ hear is the ambient noise of the city, and the loud, desperate pounding of her heart.


	7. Florence Nightingale Ain’t Got Shit on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long, I’ve been dealing with a family health crisis. (Long story short, my dad is in the hospital right now.) Anyways, here’s where we get to the Hurt/Comfort tag portion of the fic. Enjoy :)

_Not today._

_Not today, Marine._

It’s a silent order she gives him. One she repeats endlessly in her head like a chant, or a prayer. Frank Castle had squared off with the Grim Reaper several times since she’d met him, and probably numerous times before that. He’d lived through deployments to Afghanistan, survived that fateful day at the Central Park Carousel, raged against the dying of the light time and time again.

Frank was  _not_ going to die in her apartment tonight.

Karen would make it so, through sheer force of will if necessary. 

After this, he could push her away all he wanted. Walk away, for real this time. But the one place he could never go is the one in which she could not follow. She wouldn’t allow it, not on her watch.

Jaw set with determination, she unzips his jacket to get a better look at his injury. She inhales sharply when she catches sight of all the blood, the deep crimson blooming like a field of poppies across his gray t-shirt. The soft cotton is sticking to the wound, she’d need to cut the shirt away. But for now, Karen strips his jacket from his shoulders and lays his body down gently on her living room floor. Standing up, she goes to retrieve the supplies she’s going to need to play nurse.

First things first, she needs to clean out the wound. Karen hurries to the kitchen to fill a ceramic bowl with water, putting it in the microwave and setting the cook time to two minutes for it to boil. She then rushes off to the bathroom.

When one of your best friends moonlights as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, you tend to have a more expanded first aid kit than the average person. (She’d also taken a class on survivalist medical care in case of emergencies. Karen had almost quit, feeling out of place among the doomsday preppers and aspiring homesteaders, but thankfully she’d stuck it out.)

Grabbing the suture kit she keeps in the cabinet next to the sink in her bathroom, she also pulls a few clean, white towels from a stack in a wicker basket in the corner. She tucks them under her arm, flicking the light switch off as she exits the bathroom. 

Moving quickly back to the kitchen, she dumps the towels and suture kit off on the counter before taking a Ziploc bag out of a drawer. She removes the bowl of now lukewarm but sanitized water out of the microwave, pouring it into the plastic storage bag and sealing it closed. 

Karen pauses at the sink, running the tap and splashing water on her face. She bends down to drink from the stream, hoping to dilute the alcohol still left in her system from her attempt at getting shit-faced. But right now, she’s pretty clearheaded. Nothing sobers you up faster than the man you love being in danger of dying, all the caffeine and cold showers in the world couldn’t hold a candle to  _that._

Finished preparing, she gathers all the supplies into her arms, stopping on her way out to grab some kitchen shears from her knife block. Frank’s right where she left him, lying on her living room floor. His breathing is shallow, but steady. Karen takes comfort in the rise and fall of his chest, dropping down to her knees beside him.

She uses the kitchen shears to cut his t-shirt off, tugging it away from his wound gently. She sucks in a breath when she sees the extent of the injury, unimpeded by clothing. A long, ragged gash is carved into the skin of Frank’s torso. It starts on his left hip and goes up past his bellybutton and towards his chest.

A part of Karen is grateful she won’t be having to dig bullets out of his flesh, that she’s faced with a vicious slash by a knife or some other blade instead. But another part is still scared shitless. If she screws this up, she could cause permanent tissue damage and a nasty infection.

Shoving the worry to the back of her mind, Karen focuses on lifting Frank’s body up to slide a towel underneath him. She wants her work area as germ-free as possible, and the towel is the best barrier between his open wound and her crappy carpet that she’s going to get.

She snips the end off the plastic bag with the shears, using the boiled water to irrigate the wound. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like there’s any dirt or gravel inside the laceration; just a great deal of blood that washes away in a watery stream and absorbs into the white towel under Frank, turning it pink.

Now that the blood is mostly cleaned out, she can see how far the gash goes. It’s deep—beyond muscle, she can see fat and connective tissue. Swallowing hard, Karen opens the lid of the suture kit. She pulls on a pair of latex gloves, before reaching for a sterilized needle and thread.

Decided on what side of the wound she’ll begin the suture on, she takes a few calming breaths. Her hands are surprisingly steady, given the circumstances. 

_Here goes nothing,_ Karen thinks.

Biting her lip in concentration, she pierces his skin with the threaded needle. She expects Frank to come awake when she starts stitching...body twisting, head thrashing, eyes darting around, and fingers curling into fists.

But he’s quiet.

Unconscious still, with skin cool to the touch and sweat collecting on his brow.

Karen works quickly, laying stitches spaced a quarter-inch from each other along the laceration. She lines up the edges of the wound as best as she can, being careful not to pull too tightly so the skin doesn’t pucker.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but couldn’t be more than twenty minutes, she’s finished stitching. Karen blows out a breath, setting the needle aside. She inspects her work with a critical eye. Frank was going to have a gnarly scar to add to his collection, but at least he’s not bleeding anymore.

She applies antibiotic ointment to the stitches, then tapes a sterile bandage on top. Work done, she pulls her gloves off and rubs at her eyes. It’s late, sometime after midnight. Karen debates whether or not she should move him to her bed. His body needs proper rest to recover from the blood loss. Rest he’s not going to get lying shirtless on her living room floor, wet towel underneath him.

Decision made, she grabs another towel from beside her and stands up from the floor. Karen manages to heave Frank onto the towel, propping him up in a semi-upright position. Once he’s secure, she flips the end of the towel over her right shoulder and pulls it like a sled towards her bedroom. It’s a struggle, the handful of yards between the living room and her bedroom stretching out endlessly before her as she drags him behind her, his body a dead weight. Karen mutters obscenities the entire time, until finally they’re there next to her bed.

Panting from exertion, she lowers Frank down onto the floor and releases the towel. Bending down, she removes his shoes and socks. Karen unties one boot, and then the other, dropping them at the foot of her bed. 

She pauses, unsure if she should leave his pants on or not. Frank’s jeans are stained, still wet with his blood, which decides it for her. Karen unbuttons and unzips them, stripping them from his legs. He’s left naked except for a pair of black boxer briefs, and she tries and fails to remain unfazed by all the exposed skin. She mentally chides herself for ogling him while he’s unconscious, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks as she blushes like a schoolgirl.

Choosing to blame her somewhat inappropriate reaction to Frank on the alcohol, she hoists him up and onto her bed. He looks comfortable settled into the mattress, peaceful even. The lines of his face soft with sleep. 

She takes the opportunity to fully examine his body,  _in a clinical way this time_ , to check for any injuries she may have missed earlier. There are minor cuts on his face and neck. But it’s the bruising along his right side that makes her suck air between her teeth in a hiss. The red, blue, and purple patches seeming to form the shape of a boot. Some asshole kicked him while he was down, repeatedly.

Karen reaches out hesitantly, her fingertips lightly brushing over the bruises.

He put himself through so much pain night after night.

Her gaze runs over him. _That nose—_ broken frequently,  _that jaw—_ painted black and blue persistently,  _those ribs—_ taped regularly,  _those hands—_ knuckles split open continually.

His body took more blades than a slasher film and more bullets than a shooting range.

And it was every bit a weapon to the Punisher’s enemies as the guns he carried.

Karen remembers reading an interview with a famous actress in a fitness magazine in her dentist’s waiting room once. The actress compared working out to keeping her workspace organized. She said her body was her office. 

Well, if that were true, Frank’s body was the whole  _damned_ office building.

She sighs, pulling the top sheet and comforter over to cover him, before leaving her bedroom and making her way toward the kitchen. She refuses to sleep until she sees his eyes open again. And for that, she’s going to need coffee. Buckets of it.

 

* * *

 

She hauls one of her dining room chairs into her bedroom, so that she can sit by Frank’s bedside and keep watch over him. 

It’s three in the morning, and the coffee she brewed just isn’t cutting it anymore. So she talks to him. To keep her awake, and to keep her sane.

“You know, my mom and I had this thing growing up. Whenever I was sick or in pain or heartbroken over a boy, I’d ask her. I’d say Mom, if you could would you take this from me? And she’d say in a heartbeat, baby, I’d take it all upon myself.”

Karen smiles, her lips curling up as she remembers her mother. But then her mood sobers. The twinkle in her eyes fading out, the memories turning darker.

“She had cancer, was diagnosed when I was in high school,” she adds, clearing her throat against a sudden tightness.

“One day we went to visit her in the hospital. The chemo had stopped working, the doctors didn’t expect her to live much longer. So my dad took my brother and I to see her, to say goodbye. She was sitting there in her hospital bed...so frail, so tired of fighting.”

Karen pauses her storytelling, fingers tapping the coffee mug in her hands. The liquid inside no longer steaming, but gone cold.

“Funny thing, hospitals,” she smiles again, but there’s an edge of sadness to it this time. “All roads lead to the hospital. We’re born there, we die there, we get sick there, we get well there— _we get told to walk away there_ —all these big, dramatic moments and the hospital just eats them up.”

It’s dark in her bedroom, all the lights are turned off except for a small lamp in the corner. It’s also pitch-black outside, save the lampposts. The streets are empty, The City That Never Sleeps unusually quiet. It’s as if NYC itself recognizes the importance of the moment; respects the vulnerability shown by Karen laying her soul to bare, letting hidden truths slip past her lips.

“Anyways, I flipped the script. That day in the hospital. I told her, I said I’d take it away, Mom. All your pain, all your suffering. I’d take it and bring it upon myself if I could.”

“I think that’s when I knew that I loved you,” she admits, her voice going quiet. Karen looks down, and then back up to his face, so serene in his sleep. She’s louder now, confident. “When I realized I’d do the same for you.”

 

* * *

 

She wakes from a deep sleep with a jolt. Her head is slumped to the side and resting on her left shoulder, her neck bent at a weird angle. Her heart is pounding like she was awakened during a bad dream. She shakes off the disconcerting feeling, looking around to ground herself.

Karen’s still in her bedroom, she must’ve dozed off around dawn. She shifts in the chair, stretching. There’s a soreness in her back, an ache in her body from sleeping in an awkward position. The room is somewhat bright, afternoon sun filtering in through the curtains that cover the window by her bed.

She reaches for her phone on the nightstand to check the time. It’s past noon. Karen looks over at the bed, at Frank. He’s been sleeping for twelve hours now. She panics suddenly, wondering exactly how much blood he lost before he appeared on her fire escape. A quart?  _Two quarts?_

Karen’s mind races. Should she have taken him to the hospital? Frank Castle was a wanted man, but Pete Castiglione wasn’t. Should she have risked it? Maybe rest alone wasn’t enough, maybe he needed a blood transfusion too. What if he had some internal damage? She hadn’t considered that before.

The anxiety builds within her as she works herself up more and more. The two feet of space between the bed and her chair have left her feeling bereft. She wants to hold his hand. She wants to encircle his wrist and feel his pulse throb underneath her fingertips. She longs to climb into bed with him, and lie down beside him. To pull his head into her lap and run her fingers through his hair. To rest her own head on his chest, and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart.

They had exchanged kisses previously—on the palm, on the cheek, and on the forehead. They’d also held hands, briefly.

But this feels different somehow. This moment. There’s an intimacy to it, a significance that wasn’t there before.

She’s hesitant, unsure. So she resists the urge to touch him, pressing her nails into her palms instead.

“You’re running up quite the tab, Frank. You wrecked my car, you’re the reason I gave up my favorite pair of black heels, and now you’ve left a giant bloodstain on my carpet that will be impossible to get out.”

Maybe it’s wishful thinking on her part but his eyelashes seem to flicker slightly, fluttering like a butterfly’s wings.

“So you better stay alive, okay?” She chides him, voice cracking. “Because you owe me. And I’m coming to collect real soon.”

There’s a definite twitch in his facial muscles now.

“Hey,” Frank comes awake with a cough. His voice is weak, hoarse with disuse. “I saved your life by wrecking that car. Can we write that one off?”

“Okay.” A teardrop slides down her cheek, but she’s smiling. Karen’s practically dizzy with relief, laughter bubbling up inside her.

“And I’ll buy you a rug, to cover the stain.” He puts his hand up to touch her face, and looks distraught when it comes away wet. “You cry real pretty ma’am, ya know that?”

Frank marvels at her, like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Which is ridiculous because she’s still in her red dress from the engagement party, now bloodstained and wrinkled beyond repair. Her hair is also an unmitigated disaster. On a scale of 1 to Sandra Bullock’s pre-makeover wig in  _Miss Congeniality,_ it’s a solid 8. 

“Stop trying to kiss my ass,” she says, fighting a grin.

“It’s a nice ass,” he counters, his dark brown eyes twinkling with mischief.

Her mouth drops open. Did he just compliment her butt? Good Lord, was that—a  _wink?_ They’d bantered back and forth before, but this was something else. Frank Castle was flirting with her now. Lying in her bed...in his underwear... _flirting_ with her.

“See now I’m even more worried, the blood loss has clearly gone to your head,” she jokes, biting her lip.

“I’ve had worse,” he states with a shrug. Like almost bleeding out was a weekly occurrence for him. Which to be fair, with Frank it probably was, she thinks with a grimace. 

“Worse than a duel with Edward Scissorhands?” She asks, referring to his knife wound.

“Carlo Gnucci, actually,” he amends, a smile tugging at his lips.

“The oldest brother, and Isabella’s favorite son. Guess after I killed both Eddie and Bobbie, he figured I was coming for him too.”

Ah, so Bobbie “Mr. Daterape” Gnucci had bit the dust. Joining his uncle and younger brother in the grave. Karen knew it was only a matter of time after Frank left her apartment last week to go after him, but Mahoney and the NYPD were doing a good job keeping the Punisher’s exploits hidden from the public. The Bulletin hadn’t even reported on his death yet.

Frank shifts in the bed, moving to sit upright. She can tell he’s trying to hide his pain from her, but his face is tense; a hiss escaping his teeth before he can catch it.

“He set up an ambush with his men. They got the jump on me, but I made it out.”

Karen adjusts his pillow for him, reaching out to better prop him up against the headboard. “And Carlo?” She probes, though she already knows the answer.

“Dead.” His tone is flat, emotionless.

She nods, getting up from her chair. She disappears into the living room. “Gonna get you some pain meds,” she calls out to him. Karen’s back in less than a minute, a glass of water and two acetaminophen in hand which she offers to Frank. She wishes she had something stronger to give him, not that he’d accept it, of course.

“Want something to eat?” She questions, watching him swallow the pills.

He keeps drinking, finishing the glass of water; which is a good thing, because he needs the fluids.

“Later,” Frank replies, eyelids drooping downward. He’s pale, fatigue casting a shadow across his face.

She takes the empty glass from him with a nod. Karen feels worn, frayed at the seams. The roller coaster of emotions she’d experienced since she’d left her apartment to attend Foggy and Marci’s engagement party yesterday weighing heavily on her. She yawns, covering her mouth with her hand, then turns to leave the room again.

“Hey.” There’s a slight pull on her wrist. “Where ya going?” He asks, dropping her arm.

“Couch. We could both use more sleep.”

He scoffs. “Shit, Karen. You know me better than that. No chance in hell I’m going to kick you out of your own bed.”

She worries he might try to get up, to take the couch instead. But Frank surprises her. He pulls the covers over from the other side of the bed, an invitation.

“Frank, you’re still recovering,” she points out. “I could hurt you.”

“You could,” he admits in a low rumble. But it doesn’t sound like they’re talking about the same thing anymore. Karen frowns at him, eyebrows knitted together. But he doesn’t elaborate, an unreadable expression on his face.

There’s an echo of a conversation in her head. A memory. Of two people sitting in a diner drinking coffee and waiting for the bad guys to show up.

_People that can hurt you, the ones that can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it._

But before she can think through the implications of that, before she can begin to hope—there’s another tug. On her hand, this time.

Karen sets the glass down on the nightstand, moving around to the other side of the bed. She gets in, sliding underneath the covers with a sigh. She curls up on her side, facing him.

Frank slips down to lie on his back, looking over at her. His dark eyes stare into her, the circles underneath them even darker.

She stares back at him for a long moment, before exhaustion pulls at her. Her eyes are closing, she’s drifting off into oblivion...

“So I owe you a pair of shoes, huh?” Frank mumbles.

Her mouth turns up at the corners as she laughs, the sound low and husky in the quiet of her bedroom.

She falls asleep like that, smiling, his soft breathing next to her a lullaby.


	8. Just What the Doctor Ordered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a first for me, and I hope it doesn’t suck lol.
> 
> *hits play* 
> 
> 🎵Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye starts... 🎶
> 
> *runs away*

Karen wakes up two hours later feeling refreshed and relaxed. She must’ve rolled over in her sleep, because she’s curled up next to Frank. Her head is perched on his left shoulder—golden locks spread out across his pillow, and her hand is resting on his bare chest. Frank’s still snoozing, the hard lines of his face relaxed in sleep. His arm is wrapped around her back, pulling her in close to his side.

Determined not to wake him, Karen slowly lifts her hand from his chest, finger by finger. She then slides her body backwards out of their impromptu cuddle, moving across the mattress until she reaches the edge. Holding her breath, she slips from the bed.

He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t even twitch at her absence. She has a feeling Frank isn’t usually this deep a sleeper, that the blood loss is to blame. But either way, she welcomes it. God knows he didn’t get much sleep in whatever rat-infested hovel he was living in when he wasn’t staking out his next target.

She creeps over to the nightstand to retrieve her phone, unplugging it from her charger. It’s mid-afternoon, leaving her enough time to run some errands before dinner. Phone in hand, Karen sneaks out of her bedroom and into the bathroom. She washes her face, brushes her teeth, and twists her unruly hair up into a bun. She’s in desperate need of a shower, but that will have to wait till she gets back. In the meantime, she’s stuck smelling like Frank. Like gunpowder, blood, sweat, dirt, and smoke. It’s a weirdly alluring combination, but that might just be her heart talking.

Karen feels grimy, still wearing her dress from the engagement party. But she keeps it on for now, grabbing her coat from the rack in the entryway and slipping into it. She buttons it, covering up the dark spots Frank’s blood has left on the red fabric.

She steps into a pair of slip-on sneakers left by her front door, before breezing into the dining room to grab her purse from the table. She drops her phone inside it, and then pulls out a pad of Post-it notes and a pen. She hoped to be back before Frank could even miss her; but just in case he does wake up while she’s gone, she writes him a note.

_Went shopping. Be back soon._

_— K_

Sticking the message to the back of the door, she locks up her apartment behind her and drives her car to Target.

Nelson, Murdock & Page’s caseload has been so full lately that she’s had no time to go grocery shopping. She’d been eating like a college kid for months, living off takeout and frozen dinners. Her cupboards and refrigerator have been empty for so long that she’s surprised she doesn’t see tumbleweeds blow by her kitchen every time she comes home.

She goes for breakfast staples first, placing a carton of eggs, butter, milk, orange juice, bacon, and pancake mix in her shopping cart. She adds some packaged ground beef and fresh chicken, along with various fruits and vegetables. Karen considers Frank’s blood loss, dropping a six-pack of lemon lime Gatorade into the cart to replace the electrolytes and carbohydrates he’d lost. Passing the health aisle, she picks up a bottle of iron supplements.

She’d worn a lot of hats during her time as a working woman, but acting as The Punisher’s personal shopper takes the cake. Karen gets him a pair of pajama pants, a couple of t-shirts, and some sweatpants. Hesitating, she adds a package of boxer briefs to the pile, and then makes her way toward the cash registers to check out.

It takes two trips, but she manages to bring in all of her purchases from the car, dumping the bags on her dining room table. When she locks the front door, she notices that the note she left for Frank is still stuck to the back of it. She peels it off, crumpling it and shoving it into the pocket of her coat. Kicking her shoes off and hanging her coat up in the entryway, Karen heads to the kitchen to put the groceries away. Once that’s done, she goes to check on Frank.

He’s shifted to the middle of the mattress, but he’s still sleeping soundly. Tiptoeing around the bed, she retrieves her pajamas from her dresser and slips into the bathroom to shower.

Karen emerges twenty minutes later, scrubbed clean and feeling invigorated. She’s wearing a camisole and shorts, pale skin flushed a soft pink from the hot water.

She pads down the hall to her bedroom, sticking her head in. Frank’s awake finally, sitting up in bed and rubbing at his eyes. The sickly pallor is gone from his skin, color having returned to his face. He looks more like himself now, healthy and strong.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Karen greets him from the doorway. Her arms are crossed loosely, one hip propped against the door jamb.

His dark eyes scan the length of her, from the wet hair falling down her back to the shiny red polish she’s wearing on her toes. Her pulse skitters, her heart skipping a beat in her chest.

“How long have I been out for?” He asks her, his deep voice rough with sleep.

“Altogether?” She uncrosses her arms, moving further into the room. “About seventeen hours.”

He nods, then shoves the covers off him and throws his legs over the side of the bed.

“Wait, don’t get up yet.” She puts a hand out to halt his movement. “I have something for you.” She disappears into the living room.

She returns in a couple of minutes, carrying a glass of orange juice and two iron tablets, a bag hanging from the crook of her elbow.

“Iron supplements,” she says, passing him the pills. “And vitamin C, to help with iron absorption,” she adds, handing him the orange juice.

Frank grumbles, muttering something that sounds like  _overkill_ under his breath. But he takes them anyway, despite his objections.

“I went shopping while you were sleeping,” Karen tells him as he swallows the tablets, holding up the bag containing the clothes she’d purchased for him with a flourish. “Got you a few things.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Karen,” he comments, seeing the contents of the bag. He looks up at her, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I don’t live in a van down by the river, ya know? I have my own place.”

“Frank?” Her tone is all sweetness and light.

He finishes drinking the glass of orange juice, “hmm?”

“Just shut up and let someone take care of you for once, okay?” She instructs him, taking the empty glass from his hand with a huff of exasperation.

“Yes, ma’am.” He mock salutes her.

Karen rolls her eyes, fighting a grin. She turns to leave the room, to set the glass in the kitchen sink. “Go shower, and I’ll check your wound. Then we can eat,” she calls out behind her.

She keeps busy while he showers, changing the sheets on the bed. She also does a load of laundry, hoping to wash the blood from his jeans and her dress.

Frank exits her bathroom wearing the plaid pajama pants she’d gotten him. His hair is still damp, his skin moist from the shower. 

Her eyes track a drop of water that falls from his collarbone—sliding down his chest, across the defined ridges of his abs, and disappearing into the waistband of his pajama pants. Karen imagines chasing it with her tongue.

Averting her eyes from the glistening bare skin of his torso, she directs him to take a seat on the couch. He plops down on it, relaxing back against the cushions.

“Order dinner for us? I’ll be right back.” She drops a pile of takeout menus into his lap, along with her phone; before escaping to the bathroom. She’d use those groceries she bought to cook them something tomorrow, she tells herself.

Karen takes the suture kit out from the cabinet next to the sink, and then assesses her appearance in the mirror. Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed with color; her body humming with awareness of Frank. She waits around for a few minutes, then splashes water on her face to cool herself down and washes her hands.

Leaving the bathroom, she catches the tail end of Frank placing an order for delivery. “Hope you like Chinese,” he remarks, leaning forward to place her phone on the coffee table.

“Of course.” She sits down beside him on the couch, setting the suture kit aside.

She carefully peels the bandage away from his skin, bracing one knee on the couch and leaning across him for a better look.

He grips her hips. She assumes it’s to steady her. “Quit fussing,” he says. “It’s just a scratch.” 

She ignores him, analyzing the wound. Thankfully, there’s no signs of infection. No swelling, no red streaks, no yellow pus or cloudy drainage.

But it’s ugly. The jagged line of stitches marring the broad and muscular beauty of his shirtless body. She swallows hard, feeling a stinging ache in her own stomach at the sight.

“Any tenderness or pain?” She asks, palpitating the skin around the stitches with her fingers lightly.

“Nope.”

She nods, reaching for the suture kit. Karen slathers on a layer of antibiotic ointment, and tapes a fresh bandage on top.

The bandage is securely in place, yet she continues to run her fingertips over it gently. Drifting, her hands move over the skin of his torso and chest as she draws patterns across his body that only she can see. She caresses his scars—the older, faded ones from his time in the military, and the newer ones, the healing skin pink and shiny. Frank remains still at her perusal, his breath quickening. Before she can stop herself, she adds her lips into the mix, bending down to softly kiss the scars. Karen’s peppering kisses along the watercolor of bruising on his side from his fight with Carlo Gnucci’s men, when Frank groans, fingers digging into the couch cushions.

She pulls away from him then, realizing how inappropriate she was being. She’d crossed that delicate line in the sand, ignored that small sliver of space they always seemed to leave between them...in the hotel elevator, in the hospital room that last time.

“I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have done that,” she apologizes, looking away in embarrassment. Her cheeks heat, her pale skin betraying her once again.

He cups her chin, turning her face back so that her eyes meet his. “Hey, I wasn’t stopping you.”

She feels a tremor in his hand. Frank said he wasn’t in pain, but...

“Karen.” His voice roughens. He leans in closer.

There’s a knock on the front door.

She jerks her chin from his grasp at the sudden noise. “Food’s here.”

She gets up from the couch, picking up her purse from a nearby chair. Having paid the delivery guy, she locks the door again and turns around with the paper bag containing their food tucked under her arm to find Frank standing a short distance away.

“Karen?”

“What?” She asks, hanging her purse up on her coat rack.

“Thanks for putting my sorry ass back together last night. I’ll pay you back for the clothes.”

Karen sighs. She didn’t want his money. No, what she wanted from him was a lot more valuable. Priceless, even.

She moves closer to him, touching her fingertips to his chest. “Frank, I—”

She stops short, cutting herself off as she loses her nerve. She shakes it off, smiling at him. “Let’s eat.”

He’s silent for a moment, watching her. But then he presses his hand over hers, warming her palm against his skin. “Alright. Beef broccoli or orange chicken?”

An hour later, they’re sprawled out on the couch with full bellies, empty containers of Chinese food laying on the coffee table in front of them. A replay of a Yankees-Red Sox game is on the television in the background, but they’re not paying any attention to it.

“Here, you can have it,” Karen says, passing him the last remaining fortune cookie.

Frank takes it with a mumbled thanks, a small smile on his lips. Then he breaks it open and frowns.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” She leans in to see around his shoulder, sipping at her beer.

“It’s empty. There’s no fortune.” He pouts, drinking a mouthful of his own beverage, a Gatorade.

( _For the dehydration, Frank_.)

( _You’re a pain in the ass, ya know that?)_

“That’s weird.” She picks up her phone from the table, typing into it quickly. She holds it out to him, showing him the results of her Google search.

“It’s a sign that something good will happen to you soon.”

“Shit yeah, I’ll take that.” Frank laughs, popping half the fortune cookie into his mouth and offering her the rest of it.

They sit in the living room for a few more hours, watching tv and enjoying a moment of just  _being._ And Karen can see it. What a life with Frank could look like. Maybe they’d never own a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a dog. (He’d already had that life anyway, and lost it. She doubted he’d want it again.) But they could have something else together. Their own version of happily ever after.

Later, after the trash is thrown away and the lights are turned off, they retreat to her bedroom for the night. She falls asleep within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, her dreams filled with visions of white skulls and fortune cookies. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a Sunday morning, and Karen wakes to an empty bed and the smell of cooked bacon. Throwing the covers aside, she gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen to investigate.

Frank Castle is standing in her kitchen flipping pancakes.

“Good morning,” he calls out, turning away from the stove to greet her. He’d heard her coming, of course. He was The Punisher, after all. It would be damn near impossible to sneak up on him.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee joins the bacon smell, her small coffee maker dripping a steady steam of java from its home on her countertop.

“Morning,” she replies with a yawn. “Anything I can do?”

“Just take a seat. Pancakes are almost done.” He’s still wearing his pajama pants, but with a shirt this time. A pity, that.

“I gotta say, I’m surprised. I didn’t think you could cook,” she remarks, pulling a chair out and sitting down at the dining room table. Frank had already set the table...plates, silverware, and napkins were all laid out. Along with butter, syrup, and the aforementioned bacon.

He quirks an eyebrow up at that, like he’s still deciding whether or not he should be offended.

She laughs, putting her hands up in supplication. “I just always had this image in my mind of you and David Lieberman sitting in some dingy bunker somewhere eating Ramen noodles and tuna pouches.”

His lips twitch like she said something funny. “Well we did, sometimes,” he admits, sliding the last pancake out of the pan and adding it to the stack sitting on a plate next to the stove. “But I ate enough of that shit in the Corps.”

He sets the pan back on the burner, turning the stove off. “First thing I’d do when I’d come home on leave was cook dinner for Maria and the kids,” he tells her, a fond smile on his face. “Steaks, usually.”

She smiles back at him, feeling lucky that he trusted her enough to share private details about his life before that fateful day at the carousel. So she reciprocates. “Same for my dad. My family owned a diner back in Vermont. I’d always know if we were in the black at the end of the month, because he’d grill steaks in celebration,” Karen says, nostalgia causing a twinge in her chest as she remembers the days when business was good and her family was still intact.

Frank looks like he wants to ask a question, like he wants to know more—now that she’s given him a rare glimpse into her past. But he refrains, picking up the coffee pot and filling two mugs instead. He hands her one of them, then sets his own mug down by his plate.

“Breakfast is served,” he announces, depositing the stack of pancakes onto the table. He pulls out a chair, plopping himself down across from her.

They eat in companionable silence for a while, both enjoying their pancakes and bacon. Before Frank turns to her, eyebrows crinkled as he takes a drink of his coffee.

“So tell me, how is it you gave up your  _favorite pair of black heels_ for me?” He asks, quoting her words from yesterday, clear amusement in his voice.

Karen finishes chewing a bite of pancake, setting her fork down next to her plate. She wipes her mouth, lips forming a smile behind her napkin.

“Well, there’s this assistant medical examiner named Ed. He has a bit of a shoe fetish...” 

 

* * *

 

Frank stays for three days.

A part of her starts to believe—begins to hope—that he might actually stay  _for good_ this time.

But on Monday morning, Karen walks out of her bedroom wearing a pretty spring dress to find him sitting on the couch in her living room, tying up his boots.

“Where are you going?” She asks him, already knowing the answer.

“To finish this,” he says, standing up from the couch. “This war with the Gnuccis.”

She sighs. “Can’t you just let this one go? Fight another war, a different day.”

“I killed Isabella Gnucci’s brother and all three of her sons, Karen. She’s not going to stop until she gets her revenge.”

“Frank, you almost bled out after your last round with the Gnucci family,” she reminds him, panicked desperation in her voice. 

“Don’t go. Stay here.”

His eyes go soft at her pleading, “Karen, I—”

She cuts him off. “Remember when you told me you have to keep me safe?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not the same.”

“What do you mean, it’s not the same? Of course it is. I _care_ about you, Frank.”

She wants to wrap him in cotton wool, spirit him away with her to a secret island where none of his enemies—or hers, for that matter, could ever find them.

He looks at her with exasperation, like she’s being ridiculous. Which admittedly, she probably is. What man could protect himself better than The Punisher? His entire being was a  _weapon._

But he didn’t care enough about his own personal safety. He’d always put others before himself. A Marine through and through,  _nemo_ _resideo_ or “no one left behind” was his creed.

She wonders how Maria did it for so many years, let her husband and the father of her children go off to fight in a godforsaken place filled with people that wanted to kill him. Not for the first time, Karen wishes she could’ve met Maria Castle. What an incredible woman she must’ve been, to earn the love and loyalty of a man like Frank.

“I care about you too, but I—” 

“Do you?” She cuts in.

“Do I what?” He asks, confused. He frowns, eyebrows furrowed and head tipped to the side.

“Care about me?” She clarifies, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Of course I do,” Frank huffs, frustrated with her. “You  _know_ what you mean to me, Karen.”

Sometimes she thought she did. Other times she wondered if it was all just a figment of her imagination, like taking ginger snaps into a broom closet and pretending it was a spaceship.

“A source of information.” His eyes narrow. “A doctor, or a therapist on occasion.”

Karen’s goading him now, trying to pick a fight. But she can’t help it. All the anger, all the hurt from that day at the hospital when he told her to walk away has come rushing back. The feeling of abandonment from those five months of radio silence—the desperation for any scrap of news, any minor update on his location or condition.

“You really believe that, huh?” 

He starts to close the distance between them by taking slow, deliberate steps, but Karen stands her ground. He tilts his chin, like he’s testing her. 

She swallows hard, meeting his gaze. “Yeah, I do.”

He studies her for a long moment. She holds her breath.

“ _Bullshit_.”

Frank grabs her. One of his hands wrapping around the back of her neck and the other snaking around her waist as he pulls her to him, slanting his mouth over hers. She goes still from shock, body turning stiff. He pulls back a little in response, giving her the upper hand, the chance to turn him down. It’s the threat of retreat, the idea that he might stop kissing her that shakes her out of her initial stupor. She opens her lips and slides her tongue into his mouth, throwing her arms around his neck to keep him in place.

His hand falls from her face, and he runs it down her back until it moves over her ass. He cups it, squeezing it hungrily as he pulls her in close to his body so that she can feel his desire for her. She gasps as Frank tears his mouth away from hers to drop hot, open-mouthed kisses on her neck. Her eyelids flutter closed as he finds a particularly sensitive spot, and he must hear the hitch in her breathing because he lingers there, lips forming a smirk against her skin.

Karen drags his face back to hers forcefully, capturing his bottom lip between her teeth. She bites down on it, and he growls. Reaching down, he lifts her up and into his arms. She moans into their kiss, wrapping her legs around him eagerly. There’s a niggling thought about his healing wound, a worry over tearing his stitches. But then his hands slip under the hem of her dress, gliding over the backs of her thighs. His calloused palms on her bare skin make her shiver, and she’s lost in him again.

Frank rocks his hips against her, and she yanks at his hair. She craves him, desperately. Wants him with a burning passion, needs him inside her right now or she might die. He seems to feel similarly, because he kisses her like she’s his lifeline—deep and breathy...before backing them up against a wall near her bookcase, and leaning his full weight into her. 

She feels deliciously crushed between Frank and the drywall. His body cages her in—it’s solid, warm, and raring to go. Karen rolls her hips, feeling wanton but too caught up in her desire to care. His hands roam, pushing the thin straps of her dress past her shoulders so that he can gain access to her chest. He leans down, pressing sucking kisses to the tops of her breasts. Her hands find their way to his head, fingers sliding through his hair and nails lightly scratching at his scalp.

Karen places a soft kiss on his crown, before pulling his head back up and joining their lips together once more. She grinds her hips, aching for him. “I want to feel you,” she murmurs against his lips. She pulls back, running her hands down his chest and tugging at his t-shirt. Frank captures her hand, placing a gentle kiss across her knuckles as he moves it away from his torso. He reaches down himself, grabbing his shirt by the hem and yanking it up and over his head.

It drops to the floor, leaving him naked from the waist up. She takes a minute to appreciate the view, brushing her fingertips over the peaks and valleys of his six-pack abs. She then focuses on his chest, swirling her tongue over a nipple before sucking it between her lips and scraping it with her teeth. Frank makes a hoarse sound in the back of his throat, his knees buckling slightly.

She kisses him again, her hands roaming his back, feeling his muscles ripple under her touch. She sweeps her fingers down his sides, making her way to the waistband of his jeans. Once there, her fingers trail over his fly, tracing his length. “I need you,” she whispers against his mouth. “I’m on the pill. Frank, _please_.”

He nods, helping her unbutton and unzip his jeans. Freed from the confines of his underwear, he rips her lace thong away and slides into her in a smooth motion. Frank pulls out before pushing forward again and stars,  _shining stars_ , burst behind her eyelids. Her head falls back against the wall with a dull thud, and his hand comes up to protect it as he moves deeper inside her.

He’s in her, on her, surrounding her. It’s like that time in the elevator. Her whole being, her entire existence is Frank Castle.  _His smell_ —the clean scent of soap mixed with a musk that’s decidedly Frank. _His taste_ —the coffee on his breath, the hint of mint toothpaste on his tongue. Karen’s drowning in it, drowning in him. Such a lovely way to go, she thinks with a sigh of contentment.

She purposely tightens around him, and something seems to snap inside him. He picks up the pace, thrusting wildly. She reaches a hand out behind her, feeling for something of substance to hold onto. Karen finds her wooden bookcase, grips a shelf with her fingers. It feels like the only thing anchoring her to the ground. Without it, she might just float away and up to the heavens.

A particularly hard thrust knocks a book free from the bookcase. The paperback falls to the ground, the noise startling them both. Frank goes still at the sound, tense. Ready to defend her even now, naked ass hanging out and buried to the hilt inside her. She catches his cheek with her hand, turning his face so that he can see the book on the floor. Karen laughs then, when she spots the title:  _Crime and Punishment_ by Dostoevsky. Frank smiles, that secret one at the corner of his mouth that she adores. But then he groans, the vibrations of her laughter making him twitch inside her, and they’re moving again. 

Their faces press close together, noses bumping against each other and open mouths brushing with every perfect arch he takes into her body. Before long, Karen’s tumbling over the edge, clenching around him tightly as she comes. He follows her off the cliff, hips jerking as he spills inside her.

It’s silent for a moment, the only sound that can be heard in her apartment is their loud breathing as they both come down from their mutual high.

Frank buries his face into her hair, panting into her neck as he softens inside her. “Well fuck me, the fortune cookie was right,” he says breathlessly. “Something _incredible_ just happened to me.”

She swats at him, unwrapping her shaky legs from around his waist and dropping them down to the floor. He slides out of her, and she already feels somewhat empty. Like there’s a part of her missing.

But then he smiles at her, leaning in to kiss her softly. And she’s made whole again.

 

* * *

 

Frank leaves,  _after_.

But with a promise this time.

They’re stood together in the entryway of her apartment. He wraps a hand up in her hair, and uses it to reel her in close. He kisses her, and it’s slow and hot and makes her tingle all the way down to her toes.

“I’ll come find you,” he tells her, gaze heated and lips still wet from her kiss, “when it’s over.”

Karen knew it would never truly be over, that Frank wouldn’t—couldn’t—hang up the mantle. He’d been waist deep in the fray of violence and suffering for so long that it had become home for him. 

And the city needed him. To keep the wolves from the door. To stand between the monsters and the weak. But maybe now, he’d let her stand beside him. Maybe now, instead of walking away from one another...they could walk  _together._


	9. You Come at the Queen, You Best Not Miss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating this much later than I intended, my bad. Inspiration struck, and I started writing new drafts instead of working on this fic, sorry. Also, no Frank this chapter, double sorry.

She’s typing away at her computer, completely immersed in her work, when Karen’s interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared. She looks up, fingers hovering over the keys.

Foggy’s standing in front of her desk, a steaming mug of coffee held in each hand. He smiles, holding one of the mugs out to her. “Caffeine break?”

She nods, putting her computer in sleep mode and rolling her desk chair over to the right. Karen stands, taking the mug he passes to her as he seats himself in one of the two upholstered chairs she keeps in front of her desk for client meetings.

“Where’s Matt?” She asks as she sits back down again, looking behind him for the man in question. The door to her office is left open, as was customary unless she was having a private meeting with a client, but the blind lawyer is nowhere to be seen.

“Out,” Foggy says, sipping at his coffee. “Meeting with Mrs. Lee.”

Marissa Lee was their newest client, a shopkeeper being sued for negligence in a personal injury lawsuit. Though it looked more like she was the target of a slip and fall scam, and it was their job to prove it. 

Karen, Foggy, and Matt often convened throughout the week to discuss their individual progress on certain cases. But seeing as one-third of their trio was currently absent, it meant whatever Foggy wanted to talk to her about was personal.

She drinks her coffee, deciding to wait him out. He gives her a few minutes to enjoy her joe—one sugar and two creamers, just like she likes it—before he can’t hold back anymore.

“So...”

“So?” She plays dumb, lips curling up behind the rim of her mug.

“You called in yesterday. And you never take time off, so you must’ve had a  _very busy,”_ he waggles his eyebrows at her, “weekend.” He grins like a Cheshire cat, looking quite pleased with himself.

_Oh._ He thought she’d missed work because she was having a sex marathon all weekend long with Eric, the guy Marci set her up with at their engagement party on Friday night. Well, Foggy was right about one thing. She’d been busy _getting busy_ with a man, but it wasn’t with his fiancée’s co-worker. Should Karen tell him what really happened? She’d already divulged her feelings for Frank at Josie’s, and he hadn’t run screaming.

_ Ah, fuck it. _

She lowers the mug away from her mouth and sets it down on her desk.

“I had sex with Frank Castle yesterday.”

Foggy chokes on his coffee.

He has a coughing fit, his cheeks flushing and the coffee in  his mug threatening to spill over the side as his hand shakes from the force of his cough.

“Shit Karen, I breathed that in,” he chides her in a hoarse voice, once he’s recovered.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, but her unrepentant grin probably makes it seem less genuine. 

“You can’t just drop bombs like that so early in the morning,” he sputters in indignation.

“Foggy, it’s almost noon,” she points out, lips still curved in amusement.

“Whatever. Point stands.” He waves her off, the skin of his face returning to a more normal color.

He reaches forward to put his mug on her desk, and then crosses his arms across his chest like a sulking child. “What the hell, Karen? I thought we liked Eric now.”

Her eyebrows raise at his choice of pronoun, “we?”

“Yeah yeah, it’s your life. And you can date a psycho killer if you want to.”

She straightens in her desk chair, going on the defensive. “He only kills people that need killing.”

“Fuck, Karen.” He runs his hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. “For my own sanity, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

She bites her lip, feeling vaguely shamed. “He can cook too. You should try his pancakes, Foggy. They melt in your mouth. It’s fresh lemon juice, that’s the secret. That’s what makes them so fluffy.”

Foggy harrumphs, unimpressed. “So you’re—what? _Going steady_ with The Punisher now?”

“No, we...well I—I don’t know,” she admits. The truth was, Karen wasn’t sure if what happened yesterday would even change things between them. They’d had sex—mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex— _but still._ There were no dramatic proclamations of love. No grand gestures made.

Foggy studies her, his gaze sharp. “Did he run out on you? Because I don’t care if he can kill me with a paper clip, I’ll kick his ass if he disrespected you like that.”

She practically melts at the threat. He was scared shitless of Frank, had been since Reyes had shown them crime scene photos detailing his eradication of the Kitchen Irish. But there was nobody more loyal than Foggy Nelson, his own fear be damned when it came to protecting a friend.

“No.” Karen leans forward, reaching across her desk to place a reassuring hand on his forearm. “No, Frank wouldn’t do that.”

“Well good, because I’m not ready to die.” He lays a hand on top of hers, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Not until me and Marci have gotten hitched, anyway.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Foggy.” She settles back into her chair, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I think you could take him.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right. The only thing left of me after that battle would be my hair.”

Karen laughs, lifting her mug to her lips. “It _is_ an incredible head of hair,” she remarks, after drinking a mouthful of coffee.

“Damn straight,” Foggy replies, picking his own mug back up from her desk.

They both sit in silence for a moment, enjoying their coffee. Karen stares down into her mug, her mind wandering. She didn’t know what she and Frank were in relation to one another now. But there had been a fundamental shift between them yesterday. The look in his eyes when he entered her body for the first time, the raw honesty in his voice when he promised to return to her...that meant something. It had to.

She looks up, meeting Foggy’s eyes. “I don’t know what Frank and I are yet. But whatever we are, I’d like to keep it to myself for a while, if that’s alright.”

Foggy takes an exaggerated deep breath. “It’s a big ask, Karen. One of my best friends is banging The Punisher, do you know what a juicy piece of gossip that is?” He teases her with a playful lilt in his voice.

But then he turns serious, his tone becoming more solemn. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

Karen nods, assured he’d remain mum. After all, Foggy hadn’t told a soul that Matt was Daredevil, hiding the fact that their friend was living a double life as an attorney by day and a vigilante by night for over a year. She would tell Matt, eventually. And maybe even Marci, sometime down the line. But for now, Karen wanted to be selfish. She’d never really had Frank, he’d always belonged to someone or something else. First, to his thirst for blood and quest for vengeance. And later, to his dreams—to his memories of his family. She’d had to share him for so long, and always would, to a certain degree. Because being with Frank Castle meant being with The Punisher too. And maybe that should terrify her. That she’d fallen for the man that once chased her (well Grotto,  _technically_ ) through Metro-General with a sawed-off shotgun.

But what’s done was done. The whole world was out there, waiting for him. Isabella Gnucci and whoever came after. The possibility of death and certainty of violence, every time he donned that white skull. And it didn’t matter. Because she’d always known what he was, and loved him in spite of— _because of—_ it.

Foggy stands up from his chair, interrupting her train of thought. He smiles sweetly at her, empty mug in hand, before reaching over her desk to snatch her own mug out of her hands. 

“Hey,” she protests, “I wasn’t finished with that.” She still had about an inch of java left.

“Coffee’s for closers. Get back to work, Page.” He winks at her; then strolls out of her office, down the hallway, and out of sight, whistling a cheerful tune under his breath.

Karen rolls her eyes good-naturedly, moving her chair closer to her computer. She turns the screen back on, determined to drive all thoughts of Frank out of her head by throwing herself into her work.

 

* * *

 

They take her one week later.

She’s in Brooklyn chasing a lead on a new case, when a white van rolls up behind her. Before she can even pull her .380 from her purse, two men snatch her off the street in broad daylight.

Karen doesn’t make it easy for them, writhing like mad as they manhandle her into the back of the van. She even manages to break free for a moment, striking out at them. She catches one in the face, dragging her nails across his cheek. He curses viciously in response, before backhanding her.

The world is turned on its head as her own is whipped to the side from the force of the blow. Blood fills her mouth, and she spits it at him. He swears again, jumping back but unable to avoid the spray hitting his polished shoes. Karen grins at him as it lands, feeling somewhat crazed—she must look like a rabid animal, baring her bloodstained teeth at him, her lower lip split.

But her victory is short-lived as the other man binds her hands and feet with zip ties, before duct taping her mouth shut. Trussed up securely, she’s chucked into the van like a side of beef.

They travel for a long while, maybe three hours. Karen listens as the sounds of the city fade away over time. The honking cars, sirens, and construction noise growing distant until all she can hear is silence.

They must be upstate somewhere, she thinks. In the Catskills.

Finally, the van comes to a stop and the back doors are thrown open. The man she scratched across the face earlier appears, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. She keeps her eyes on him as he reaches toward her, flinching as the knife nears her face. He smirks, taking pleasure in her discomfort, before ripping the tape off her mouth. Karen gasps at the sudden burning sensation, as the man bends down to cut the zip tie around her feet. He pockets the blade, leaving her hands bound behind her back. The guy’s partner joins him then, and the two grab her by the shoulders and yank her from the van. 

Her suspicions about their location are confirmed when her flats meet the gravel of a driveway. A neoclassical mansion lies ahead, its colonnaded facade and pedimented front porch presenting a formal, timeless beauty that harks back to the architecture of ancient Greece and Rome.

The house itself is a contradiction, a piece of civilization rising from the ground and interrupting the wild beauty of the nature that surrounds it. Lush forest is all around, tall trees with dark green leaves; and in the distance, she spots what looks to be a small lake. They’re in the middle-of-nowhere it would seem, there’s no sign of any neighboring houses. The nearest person is probably miles away, there’s nobody to witness her being held against her will by these two men.

It’s also quiet, so very quiet. All she can hear is the sound of the wind blowing, the drop in temperature brought on by evening’s arrival making her shiver in her light blouse and jeans. Daylight was draining away, the sun sinking down toward the horizon as it set. The sky itself is awash with color, red and orange joining the blue.

It smells clean and earthy outside, so unlike the olfactory combination of urine, garbage, and pretzels that permeated the city. Karen breathes deeply, enjoying the air free from cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes—until a gun is jabbed into her back.

“Move,” a voice barks out.

When she doesn’t immediately spring into action, he presses the gun even harder against her spine. The unspoken threat is clear, do as I say or get shot.

She steps forward, somewhat off-kilter, her hands still tied behind her back. But she walks, moving slowly up the stone walkway that leads to the house. The two men follow along behind her, the sound of their footfalls combining with hers. The gun’s been removed from her body, but the threat of violence lingers.

A red-tailed hawk swoops down from a nearby tree and lands on a squirrel enjoying a nut on the perfectly manicured front lawn. It rips the poor thing to shreds with its talons, pecking at its intestines. The dead rodent seems to stare at her from its spot on the grass, its black eyes looking mournfully in her direction. Karen sympathizes, as they reach the end of the stone path and near the house. She has a feeling she’s about to meet a human version of that hawk.

The mansion towers in front of her now, its stately brick exterior and front porch featuring a row of four Doric columns even more impressive up close. A hand grips her arm tightly to stop her before the heavy, mahogany front door, which is then opened by what appears to be a butler outfitted in a black suit and white gloves. 

The older man greets them with a formal “good evening,” a flash of pity in his eyes when they meet hers. But a hard shove between the shoulder blades causes her to trip crossing the doorway, and when she looks up, the butler has disappeared.

The interior of the mansion is equally as grand. Clearly whoever lived here had money, or wanted people to think they did. The entryway is luxurious, polished marble floors complimenting the crystal chandelier that hangs over an imperial staircase. But Karen’s given only a brief moment to admire the opulence around her, before she’s dragged past the staircase and down a hallway.

They enter a library, and it’s like something out of Disney’s  _Beauty and the Beast._ There are floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookshelves filled with every book imaginable, along with a rolling ladder. A richly colored Persian rug covers the floor, and there’s a massive landscape painting hanging over a fireplace in the middle of the room. 

And sitting behind an ornately carved wooden desk in the corner is the Beast  _herself._

Isabella “Ma” Gnucci, the middle-aged matriarch of the Gnucci crime family.

She was an attractive woman once. The physical traits are all still there: high forehead, small chin, narrow jaw, and defined cheekbones. She has slick, black hair that falls to her shoulders, and blunt bangs cut in a straight line. But her beauty is diminished now. Faded, like an old photograph gone yellow.

“Nicolas Colletti: restaurateur, husband, father of four,  _thief._ ”

Karen’s confused at first, until she realizes the accusation is being leveled at a man she’d somehow missed in her initial scan of the room. He’s seated in a chair near the female crime lord’s desk, unrestrained but looking like he’s ready to bolt any minute. It’s likely the two men standing at attention behind Isabella that keep him in his seat.

“You’ve been stealing from me, Colletti. From my family.”

Wait, Colletti...Karen knew that name.  _Colletti’s_ was a pizzeria in Little Italy. Back at the Bulletin, she once had a busboy come forward to allege the restaurant was laundering money from loan sharking, drugs, and extortion. But before she could dig deeper, or work with the source to prove these illicit activities were taking place, the young man fled town and the trail went cold.

“I wouldn’t do that. I could never disrespect your family that way,” Colletti says, basically pleading with her. There’s desperation in his voice, a hint of panic at the edges. 

Her lip curls in disgust. “You’re a terrible liar. Sitting in front of me and sweating like a whore in church.”

Isabella picks up a piece of paper with a series of numbers written on it and stands up, moving from behind her desk to stand in front of him. Her body is surprisingly lean and strong for her age, clothed in a burgundy pantsuit.

“Unfortunately for you, I have proof. I had Stevie go over the books with a fine-tooth comb. You’ve been skimming a bit off the top  _for months,_ ” she spits, throwing the paper at him.

He flinches, becoming pallid with fear. The color completely drains from his face, skin turning ashen.

“Ma, _please_. My nephew has leukemia, my brother needed help with his medical bills,” Colletti swallows hard, his throat working.

“I’ll pay it all back, I swear. With interest. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.” He implores her, holding his hands up in supplication.

Isabella scoffs, disaffected by the appeal to emotion. “I couldn’t care less about your brother’s stupid brat.”

That slight against his sick nephew seems to spark something within him. Italian Americans were a proud bunch, after all.

“Fuck you, Isabella.  _A fanabla!”_ He hisses at her, like a curse.

Karen doesn’t know any Italian, but the phrase seems to be an unpleasant one based on the reaction. One of her guards goes for his gun, pulling back the left side of his jacket to reveal a 9mm pistol tucked into a holster on his hip, but Isabella stops him with a firm shake of the head.

“Oh, how courageous you are now.” She barks out a laugh, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Do you know what courage is?” Isabella smiles at him, and it’s all teeth. Sharp and pointed like a predator. “Lack of imagination.”

“You’re brave only because you lack the ability to imagine just how bad it can get—what truly horrible things could happen to you.” She gestures off to the side, beckoning the two men standing behind the desk over to her. “Allow me to enlighten you.”

Colletti is grabbed beneath his armpits, hauled upwards, and dragged away. He yells apologies the entire way, crying out in distress and begging for forgiveness. But Isabella turns her back on him, until he’s removed from the library and taken God only knows where.

She turns to face Karen then, false smile still in place. “What about you, Ms. Page?”

“Oh, I was a writer. I’ve got imagination in spades.”

“And humor, apparently,” Isabella replies with a genuine chuckle. 

“Sorry about that,” she continues on. “Nasty business, but had to be done.” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

“Peter,” she calls out to one of Karen’s abductors, still looming behind her, their menacing bulk reminding her just how screwed she currently was. “I think we can afford to make our guest a little more comfortable.”

There’s a slight pressure, after which her hands are finally freed from their restraints. She rubs at her wrists, where the zip ties have cut into the delicate skin. A strain has built up within her neck and shoulders from having her arms tied behind her back for hours, the pain sharp and almost cold.

She’s pulled forward by the upper arm, moved closer to the cruel leader of the Gnucci family. Karen walks stiffly, watching her warily, but the woman in question merely laughs.

“You don’t have to fear me, Ms. Page. See? I’m unarmed.” She holds her hands up, palms facing outward, clearly amused.

“Cain killed Abel with a rock,” Karen remarks, as she’s forcefully pushed down to sit in the leather chair the unfortunate Mr. Colletti had occupied previously.

“Ah, brothers that hated each other. Not so with my boys. They loved one another.” Grief falls across her face like a shadow, the maternal bond still strong even in death. Isabella obviously adored her children, raping and murdering be damned. “And your Punisher took them from me.” She grits her teeth, hatred burning in her eyes.

“ _My_ Punisher?” Karen questions her, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She was often underestimated, seen as just another blonde-haired, blue-eyed bimbo. She plays that up now, letting her pale skin and thin frame do the talking for her. 

But Isabella’s not buying it. “Don’t play dumb, Ms. Page,” she chides her. “The babe in the woods act may work on men, but it won’t work on me.”

She leans back against her desk, crossing her arms across her chest. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out. You were in the car when he killed my brother, Dino—you both were there the day that wack job blew himself up at the hotel—you were on his criminal defense team. Not to mention all those fawning articles you wrote about him at the Bulletin.”

“Twice is a coincidence, maybe.” She fixes an intent look upon Karen, taking her measure. “But three times or more? Now that’s a pattern.”

It was a bitter irony that Frank had stayed away for so long in fear of this very thing happening—only for it to happen now, when all they were was the promise of something to come.

There’s a moment of silence in which the two women stare each other down, before Karen decides that pretending Frank meant nothing to her would be a wasted effort. Isabella Gnucci had eyes and ears everywhere, including among New York’s Finest. Clearly the notion of her intimate connection to Frank had been based on more than a wild guess.

“He’ll come for me,” Karen tells her, both a threat and a promise.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

So she was to be used as bait, to draw Frank in so that Isabella could face him on her own turf and on her own terms. They’d keep her alive until he arrived, so that they could kill her in front of him...and then they’d kill him too.

_Villainy 101_ type of shit.

“Would you care to join me for a game of chess?” Isabella asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer from Karen, snapping her fingers at one of her henchmen instead.

A rolling cart is pushed over, with an alabaster chess set on top.

She picks up one of the white pawns, holding it in her hand for a moment. “Do you know why I love chess so much?”

Isabella twirls the chess piece in her hand, grinning wickedly. “The king is stationary, while the queen has all the power.”

She sets the pawn back down on the chessboard, having moved it forward one space, then looks to Karen.

“Your move, Ms. Page.”

_Her move indeed._


	10. Pulling a Thelma & Louise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s back, back again  
> Vienna’s back, tell a friend...
> 
> And we’ve hit the homeward stretch! Only two chapters left after this one. Thanks for coming along for the ride, everybody! I appreciate all the love. Also, shit goes down this chapter, y’all. People die. Enjoy mwahahaha

They hold her captive for three days.

She’s not mistreated. In fact, it’s the opposite. It’s the best five-star hotel experience she never had.

The bedroom she’s kept in is an extension of what Karen had already seen of the house—it’s positively dripping with  _wealth._

Gold seems to be the overall motif of the room. Golden threads have been woven into the plush, cream carpeting, the Egyptian cotton sheets that cover the bed are gold in color, and the cast iron tub in the en-suite bathroom features poured gold Imperial claw feet. Even the serving tray that is carried by various servants to deliver her daily meals is gold-plated. It’s enough to make King Midas jealous.

Let it never be said that Isabella “Ma” Gnucci was anything but a consummate hostess, even when the guest in question was being hosted against their will.

Well mannered and eager to please maids come and go throughout the day. They provide Karen with silk pajamas to sleep in, launder her clothes for her, and offer to bring her whatever she may desire...excluding anything that could be used to facilitate an escape, like a phone or a weapon, of course.

Despite the general pleasantness of her stay at the Gnucci mansion, she remains very aware of the fact that she can’t leave. That she’s nothing more than a pet trapped in a gilded cage. There may not be bars on the windows or jangling keys heard from the hallway, but there are two armed guards stationed outside her door at all times.

Karen considers a breakout attempt the first night of her imprisonment, but the windows in her room won’t unlock from the inside. And even if she could somehow get one of them open, she’s on the second floor. There’s no ledge to shinny out on, no trellis to climb down on, or a gazebo to land on—if she managed to survive the fall, she’d still be injured in a way that would make running for the hills impossible.

By the fourth day of her captivity, those windows start to look more tempting. She’s tired of feeling like a sick dog given one last good day before being taken to the vet to be put to sleep. Or dragged out behind the house and shot in the head, as is more likely in her case.

Thankfully, that also happens to be the day Frank comes for her.

It’s at sundown when he makes his grand entrance. She’s already been served dinner, the tray and dirty dishes left at the foot of her bed, when the lights go out.

Her blood goes cold in her veins at the sudden darkness, and she’s instantly transported back in time to her childhood, to the nights she’d ask her father to check her bedroom closet for monsters.

But this monster she welcomes.

This monster she doesn’t worry about hiding under her bed. This monster she wants _in_ her bed.

This monster wasn’t even a monster at all.  _He never was._

She slips her flats on and moves to the bedroom door to listen. She puts an ear to the wood, sucking in a breath and holding it. As she blows it out, there’s a loud crash, followed by rapid gunfire.

Male voices shout warnings to one another.

_He’s here._

Her heart flutters in her chest.

_The Punisher’s here._

It seems to go on forever, the noise of battle. There’s running feet, yelling, screams, gunshots, and glass shattering. The muted sound of someone sobbing and begging for mercy, before being silenced with a bullet.

Finally, the noise dwindles down. It grows almost silent in the house.

Karen cracks the door open and peeks out into the hallway. The two armed guards always stationed there have vanished. She opens the door wider, stepping out and leaving the relative safety of the room behind to go find Frank.

She’s creeping down the darkened hall, when a man emerges from an alcove in the wall used to display a marble statue.

He’s carrying a 9mm pistol, and he points it in her direction.

She kicks out on instinct, her foot connecting solidly with his wrist. The gun flies from his hands and lands a few feet away. For a brief moment, time stands still. Their eyes meet and there’s a mutual acceptance that there will be violence between them. Physical harm or death are the only possible outcomes, the only dispute is who the victor will be. 

Karen breaks eye contact first, making the first move in the game called try not to die. She lunges for the pistol, wrapping her hands around the handle. But before she can turn to shoot him, he’s on top of her.

He grabs her by the scruff of the neck, slamming her head down into the carpet. Pain radiates up from her chin and into her jaw, the shock of it making her drop the gun. He grabs for it, but she jabs an elbow into his side sharply and rolls onto her back. Then she goes for his eyes, pressing her thumbs down until he screams. He moves back, clutching at his face, and she scrambles away from him.

He’s enraged now, and bleeding from the eyes. He moves to strangle her, wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing tightly. There’s a moment when the pain of strangulation, the sheer terror of suffocation overrides all other thought. She chokes, striking out at him in a panic. But then Karen remembers the pistol. It’s lying on the ground right next to her, and she musters all the strength left in her body to pick it up and pull the trigger.

He falls away from her, a crimson stain of blood blossoming across his white dress shirt. The pressure against her windpipe immediately ceases and she gasps, taking large gulps of air.

She rises to her feet on wobbly legs, the gun hanging limply from her hand, shaking with adrenaline and from the realization that she’d almost been killed. She breathes deeply, wiping her free hand over her face and centering herself.

She lifts the pistol, popping out the magazine to count the rounds. Nine. There are nine bullets left, nine shots to get her to Frank and to help the both of them leave this mansion alive.

Karen blows out a breath, thinks  _once more unto the breach_ , and creeps down the hallway with the gun pointed out in front of her.

 

* * *

 

She’s just rounding the corner near the top of the stairs when her name is called out in a terse, desperate voice.

Frank materializes from the shadows, and she’s reminded of just how terrifying he can be.

He’s a big, hulking mass in the darkness—a living nightmare.

It takes her back to that night in the diner, when he killed those men The Blacksmith sent after her with his bare hands.

That was the night she’d seen firsthand what he was and what he could do.

But it wasn’t until later that she realized it didn’t matter, that it didn’t change the reality of her feelings for him.

Her heart skips a beat as he strides over to her. He reaches her in a matter of seconds, breathing heavily.

He slings the assault rifle he’s carrying over his shoulder, taking her in his arms and holding her close, his hands skimming over her body to check for any injuries. Satisfied that she’s alive and well, he pulls back to look at her.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice a deep growl that sends a shiver down her spine.

“Yeah. They didn’t hurt me.” She does her own perusal, taking note of the small flecks of blood covering his face.

His gaze turns midnight dark, midnight dangerous as he zeroes in on her throat. No doubt there are red marks from the strangulation attempt.

His hand goes to her neck and he caresses it gently. His eyes are intense when they meet hers. “You sure you’re okay?”

She nods, the feel of his fingers making warmth pool in her stomach. “I’m fine,” she reiterates in a reassuring tone. “I handled it.”

He studies her for a minute more, his jaw clenched. But then he nods in acceptance. “Good.”

“Where’s Isabella?”

Frank shrugs. “Ran like hell for the exit as soon as the bullets started flying, I’m guessing.” His thumb continues to run over her nape gently, his other hand wrapping possessively around her hip. She looks at him to see his eyes are dark and worried, but there’s something else there too.

“But...? Your war—” Karen starts, before being cut off.

“I’m here to get you out safe.” He sifts a lock of her hair through his fingers, then cups her face and stares deep into her soul. “Nothing else matters, okay?”

She stares right back. “Okay.”

Frank leans forward, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes are closed and she feels him breathe her in for a moment, before drawing away.

The sound of ripping velcro rents the air, and she glances down to see him removing his bulletproof vest.

“What are you doing?” She asks, even though it’s pretty apparent.

“Giving you the vest,” he tells her, preparing to pull it up and over his head. 

She reaches a hand out to halt his movements, placing her fingers on top of his. “Keep it on.”

“Karen—”

“The skull acts as a bullseye, remember?” She reminds him. “I’d be much safer just staying behind you.”

Frank frowns as he considers her words. She can tell he’s torn between wanting her safe from any stray bullets and not wanting to make her an even bigger target.

Unable to fault her logic, he gives in with a grunt. “Fine. But keep close, okay?”

“Will do,” she replies. She waggles her newly acquired pistol in the air. “Got your six, Castle.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in amusement before velcroing his bulletproof vest back into place.

He swings his own weapon around and into his hands. “You ready?”

“Ready,” Karen affirms, setting her jaw firmly.

He takes hold of her hand and gives it a soft squeeze. Then his mouth hardens into a firm line, his eyes glinting almost black, and he’s The Punisher again.

 

* * *

 

He moves down the staircase as quiet as a whisper, and Karen follows him, albeit with heavier footfalls.

The house is gloomy without electricity, the rapidly fading daylight peeking in through the smattering of windows. The grandeur of it has become almost creepy in the semidarkness, the Gnucci mansion appearing haunted now.

She wonders if Frank cut the power for stealth, or to prevent them for calling for backup. Either way, he already took out the majority of Ma Gnucci’s men, if the general silence is any indication.

His eyes are alert, constantly scanning his surroundings for threats and keeping his body angled to shield her as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

It’s then that the remaining men decide to show themselves, spraying bullets indiscriminately as she and Frank near the entryway.

Karen doesn’t know how much ammunition he has left in his gun, but Frank makes the most of it as they fall back into the living room. They take cover behind a couch, and he squeezes off one well-aimed round after another.

She attempts to provide support by firing her gun as fast as she can pull the trigger, but her hastily shot bullets miss their targets. 

She only has one bullet left when she spots a figure emerge from behind the drawn curtains and aim his weapon at Frank’s head.  _One shot, one kill._ She takes a deep breath, lifting her pistol and firing at the man. He staggers back and falls.

The mob members now largely taken care of, she drops her empty gun and rushes along behind Frank in a crouch through the dining room and down a long corridor that leads to a side entrance.

They’re running past the kitchen toward the door, when a hand reaches out and catches her by the hair. She’s dragged backward forcefully and pulled up against a female body.

A knife is held to her throat, an arm wrapped like a steel bar around her waist.

Karen struggles in the hold, attempting to throw them both down so she can roll away. But the knife only presses tighter, nicking her skin. She inhales sharply, wincing, as blood trickles down her neck and chest, disappearing into her blouse.

“Try that again, Ms. Page, and the next thing I’ll cut is your carotid,” Isabella Gnucci hisses into her ear.

“Drop the gun!” She directs the order to Frank. “Drop the gun, or I’ll slit her fucking throat.”

She’s so enraged, borderline hysterical in her anger, that Karen doubts she’d even need the blade to do it. Isabella’s just as likely to rip into her neck with her teeth.

Frank immediately complies with her command, bending down to place his rifle on the ground at their feet.

“It’s over, Ma,” he says, straightening with his hands up, palms facing outward. 

There’s a placating quality to his tone like he’s trying to soothe an untamed, wild thing. Which in many ways, he was. Isabella, a feared leader in the criminal underworld, had been reduced to a cornered, scared animal. And there was nothing more dangerous than that.

“I rigged up an explosive in the wine cellar. This entire place’s gonna go in flames soon.”

Karen’s eyes widen at that bit of news. She’s unsure if he’s bullshitting or not, but the honesty in his expression makes her believe it to be true.

“You’ve robbed me of my sons! You’ve robbed me of my brother! I won’t let you steal my vengeance from me too,” she shrieks at him, the knife at Karen’s throat shaking slightly in her rage and grief.

“Listen, we’re all gonna be blown to shit in a few minutes,” Frank tells her. “But you can still save yourself. Let Karen go, and run for your life. I won’t stop you. I won’t even follow you.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Karen wonders if she’s contemplating his offer. If she’s considering living out the rest of her days in a cushy spot in a non-extradition country. But then she speaks. And her voice has gone quiet, a deadly quiet that’s more terrifying than her fury.

“Then we shall all perish,” she declares, just above a whisper. “I will join my family in the afterlife, and have the satisfaction of dragging The Punisher to Hell in the process.”

Karen watches Frank’s face. His gaze leaves Isabella, sliding over to meet hers. She asks him a silent question with her eyes, and he answers with an imperceptible nod.

She slams her right foot down on top of Isabella’s with as much force as she can manage. The Gnucci matriarch howls in surprise and pain, the knife lifting off Karen’s neck long enough for Frank to pull a handgun from a pocket on his pants. He doesn’t hesitate, discharging the weapon before the female mob boss can even realize what’s happening.

There’s a thud as Isabella’s body drops to the floor, followed by a clatter as the knife bounces and skitters across the hardwood floor.

Karen doesn’t have to look behind her to know that she’s dead. Not that Frank gives her a chance to, grabbing her hand and hauling her outside.

They race down the stone walkway that connects to a back garden area. There’s a storage shed tucked into the corner at the rear of the property, with an old Chevy pickup truck that reminds her of one her late grandfather used to drive parked next to it. There are tools in the back, she guesses it belongs to the groundskeeper.

Frank makes a beeline for the truck, pulling her along behind him. He goes to smash the driver’s window, but Karen stops him with a hand on the shoulder.

“The key’s in it,” she points through the window to the center console, where a small keychain sits. “Try the handle.”

She tries not to look too smug when he opens the door, hauling herself up and clambering over the stick shift to the passenger side.

Frank gets in after her, turning the key in the ignition and reversing when the engine comes to life. He spins the wheel, turning the truck around and driving forward across the lawn.

He accelerates as they pass by the house, shifting gears as he does so. It’s when they’re speeding through the open driveway gate that she hears a loud boom. Karen looks out the rear windshield to see part of the Gnucci mansion has caved in, and it’s becoming steadily engulfed in flames. She watches the burning house grow smaller and smaller in the rearview window as they pull onto a gravel road and head back toward town.

 

* * *

 

After fifteen or twenty minutes of silent driving, Frank suddenly pulls the steering wheel to the left, driving off the road and into a wooded area.

He stops the truck in a small clearing. A variety of deciduous and coniferous trees surround them, concealing them from any passing cars on the road.

Frank shuts off the engine and kills the lights, twisting in his seat to look at her. It’s dark outside. The last shimmer of daylight has left the sky and night is settling in. With no buildings or streetlights around, the only illumination is from the moon and a spattering of stars, making his face appear grim.

He has  _that look._ That look she hates. The one Matt gets when he’s feeling particularly self-righteous about something. It’s one part apology, two parts guilt, and three parts sacrificial bullshit.

Karen knows she won’t like whatever he’s about to say, so she decides to head him off at the pass.

“How’d you find out I was taken?”

He grunts—silently telling her he’s aware of what she’s doing, that he knows she’s stalling—but answers her anyway.

“Heard it come over the police scanner. Multiple 9-1-1 calls reported seeing a blonde woman get kidnapped in Brooklyn.”

His fingers twitch, tapping along the bottom of the steering wheel.

“I had a bad feeling. So I went to your apartment, then checked with Murdock.”

Her eyebrows raise at that piece of information. Matthew Murdock had always seen the world in black and white, whereas Frank Castle was all shades of gray. Frank operated within the margins, within that tiny sliver of space between right and wrong. The idea of the two vigilantes teaming up together...the man who feared crossing a line he couldn’t come back from, and the man who didn’t believe in lines. It’s a contradiction she can’t quite wrap her head around.

“You talked to Matt?”

He answers her unspoken question. “We decided my way was better this time around. And my way meant going at it alone.”

She scoffs, because she’s pretty sure he just fed her a load of crap. There’s no chance in hell Matt would ever rubber-stamp Frank’s  _methods._

He chooses to ignore her skepticism. 

And then  _that look_ is back on his face.

“Tonight never should’ve happened. I’m so sorry, Karen.”

“Don’t be. They fed me lobster tail and crème brûlée. Best I’ve eaten in weeks,” she remarks with a cheeky grin.

But Frank refuses to play ball. Remaining unamused by her attempt to lighten the mood, he continues with his martyr routine instead.

“You got dragged into this mess because of me. It’s all my fault.”

Karen can feel all the progress they’ve made since he’d returned to her after the hospital eroding away, slipping through her fingers like sand. She won’t allow herself to fall into those same old patterns. Frank showing up to save her from the bad guys, only to disappear again. She can’t go back to those years of longing, of restraint. She loves him too much.

“If it wasn’t Isabella Gnucci, it’d be somebody else.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, opening his mouth to counter her, but she doesn’t give him the chance to speak.

“No, listen,” she tells him, moving closer to him. “Fisk coming after me had nothing to do with you. And I didn’t need your help getting on Dino Gnucci’s shit list either.”

Karen blinks suddenly, finding her eyes have better adjusted to the darkness. She studies his face in the moonlight, reaching out and gently tracing the back of her knuckle over a bruise under his left eye. “This is the life I’ve chosen, Frank. To try and do the right thing, even when it pisses off dangerous people. That won’t change, with or without you.”

He swallows hard, leaning in close. “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be safe,” he whispers, putting a hand up to skim his thumb over her bottom lip.

“That’s the thing,” she murmurs, the feel of his thumb causing a tingling sensation in her lips that’s slowly taking over the rest of her body. “You say I’m not safe with you, but I’m hardly safe without you. So we might as well be  _unsafe_ together.” 

She looks at him and when their eyes meet, he doesn’t hesitate. His hands cup her face and he fits his mouth over hers.

Karen meets him halfway, opening her mouth under the pressure of his lips. She raises her hands, lacing her fingers behind his neck and pulling him toward her. Frank goes enthusiastically, rocking the truck as one of his knees clunk against the gearshift.

They make out like teenagers, all hungry mouths and wandering hands. And it’s easy to forget.

To forget that they’re parked somewhere in the Catskill Mountains in an old pickup truck stolen from a dead mob boss’s groundskeeper. They’re both covered in grime, and a litany of scrapes and bruises. Karen has crusted blood down her neck, and Frank has a dried spray of it across his face. She’d shot two men tonight, and he’d killed countless more.

(All in all, it’s pretty on-brand for them.) 

He groans, crowding her with his body, pushing her back against the passenger seat. She responds by wrapping her arms around his strong back, pressing her hands into his shoulder blades and holding him tightly as their kiss deepens.

Frank growls low in the back of his throat, throwing one leg over the center console. He kisses her harder, drawing her bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth, and soothing it with his tongue.

He lifts his head suddenly, his breathing ragged. “Are we—moving?” He asks her, his eyebrows knitted together.

She pulls back in a daze, senses temporarily befuddled by their kiss. Gradually, Karen becomes aware of the fact that the truck is in motion. Bumping along as the tires roll through the underbrush.

She nods. “We’re definitely moving,” she answers him breathlessly.

He pushes himself off of her and climbs back behind the wheel with a sheepish grin. “I must’ve knocked it out of gear.”

Karen sighs. So much for their little romantic interlude. “We should probably get going, anyway.”

“Yeah, we—” He swears as he presses his foot to the floor. “We’ve got no brakes.”

“What?”

“The master cylinder must’ve gone bad.” Frank’s teeth gleam in the darkness as he smiles. “Guess that’s what we get for picking this hunk-of-junk for a getaway car.”

But Karen struggles to find the humor in their current situation when the truck takes a sudden nosedive downward. They whip through the trees, the outside air making a whistling sound against the windows as it rushes past them. They’re rolling downhill, picking up speed at an alarming rate.

Frank flicks on the headlights.

It turns out, what she’d thought was a wooded area earlier was really just a cluster of trees along a hill. Ahead of them, lies a rock-strewn hillside. Beyond that, there’s only darkness.

She leans toward the dashboard, fingernails digging into the fabric of the passenger seat beneath her. “Is that...a  _cliff_?”

“Fuck!” He stomps on the clutch, starts the truck and throws the gearshift into reverse. The engine comes to life with a roar.

The precipice is only about fifty feet away, a thin line against the night sky. Frank manages to slow their descent, but is unable to stop it. The swallowing darkness draws nearer.

A hysterical laugh rises to her lips. She and Frank had lived through so much, both together and apart—bullets, bombs, and an assortment of baddies. 

For it to end like this? For them to survive Ray Shoonover, Lewis Wilson, Billy Russo, Wilson Fisk, Benjamin Poindexter, and Isabella Gnucci, only to be done in by gravity? It’s almost comical.

Karen looks around for a means of escape. She considers the rear windshield, wonders if they could smash the glass and climb into the truck bed to leap out the back. But though the small window may accommodate her slender frame, there’s no way Frank’s bulkier body will fit.

She presses her feet to the floor, as if she could stop the vehicle by sheer force of will alone. “So what’s the plan here, Frank?”

“You gotta jump!”

“What?” She shouts, hoping she’d misheard him over the noise of the truck’s engine.

“Jump!” He repeats. “Tuck your body into a ball before you hit the ground. And when you land, roll. It’ll lessen the impact.”

“What about you?”

His hands flex on the steering wheel and he turns his head, his gaze meeting hers briefly. There’s a calm acceptance in his eyes, an embrace of the inevitability of fate that instantly fills her with dread.

“Get out now. I’ll keep it steady.”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not going without you.”

“Karen...”

“Open your door, Frank.”

“Karen—”

“Open your goddamn door!” She shrieks at him. Hysteria rises within her, threatening to burst out at any moment.

“Damn it, Karen. The longer you argue with me, the less chance you’ll have.”

“I won’t leave you!” She pushes her door open. It falls forward, the heavy weight of it ripping the handle from her hand. “We both go or neither of us do.”

“Karen—”

“On three, okay? Ready?”

“Okay, okay.” He shoves open his own door. “Shit, you’re more out of your skull than I am.”

She steps onto the running board, gripping the doorframe for balance. “One! Two!”

But before she can get to three in her count, there’s a hard shove in the center of her back. Karen’s propelled clear of the truck. She flies through the air, realizing too late what Frank had done.

Her body hits the ground hard, knocking the breath from her. Rolling across the hillside, she comes to a stop against a jutting boulder. 

Karen manages to rise to her knees just in time to see the pickup truck’s taillights disappear over the edge of the cliff. 

“Frank!” She yells, her heart in her throat.

The sound of tearing metal and breaking glass echoes loudly in the valley below the cliff.

She crawls to the edge, looking out into the darkness. The truck’s gas tank explodes then, and there’s a loud pop and a burst of flames underneath the vehicle.

The pickup is quickly consumed, the fire lighting the floor of the valley.

She scans for any movement among the rocks and scattered wreckage below. Desperate for a glimpse of a figure, or maybe a flash of a white skull.

But there’s no sign of Frank.

There’s no sign of life.


End file.
